


Blue Bayou

by EloquentSavage



Series: Blue Bayou [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Bayou, Cicaidas, Cute Kids, Druidic Beliefs, Elemental Magic, F/F, F/M, Family, Gen, Louisiana, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Multi, New Orleans, Original Character(s), Other, Roman Catholicism, Science, Shirtless Stiles, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Supernatural Elements, Tattooed Stiles, nematon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiding deep in the Louisiana Bayou Stiles has a simple, happy life. Until Derek Hale shows up and complicates things like werewolves often do. </p><p>aka </p><p>That crazy ass swamp witch story Meg (Rusty Polished) asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spanish Moss and Resurrection Ferns

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening [ Blue Bayou Playlist ](http://youtu.be/c0_eRVroLqs?list=PLXHAopfQpXOS7OEZrTqQVFD60S86sbKZc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talequa is pronounced Ta-Lake-Wa
> 
> Clicking the link above the art will take you to the corresponding tumblr post.
> 
> All art is by xKxDx on Tumblr and Twitter

The faint scent of cooking and the noise of kids playing caught his attention. Derek wasn’t sure what direction it was coming from at first. He kept walking through the muddy underbrush and the sound of giggling slowly got louder. He didn't recall there being houses out this direction when he passed through before, but he hadn't lived here long enough to know the lay of the land perfectly. The screeching and giggling was silly enough to make him smile. The skin stretched on his lips and the smile felt awkward on his face. 

Rubbing his fingers over his mouth, he considered how long it had been since he had a reason to smile. The place he just left behind was nothing but disappointment and politics. Adults playing childish games without the fun. They schemed and planned, hoping to gain imaginary things like status and respect. He didn't have patience for any of it, but now he had no place to go, no allies left, and no where to sleep. Unless he went back to Peter’s house, but that wasn’t an option, not if he wanted to live through the night. 

Sleeping outside on a hot summer night, a days walk from New Orleans wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done with his life. The screeching and laughing was loud enough he paid close attention to where he was walking. Somehow he made it all the way to the edge of the property without deviating from the path he took only a couple days earlier. He must have been wrong, or he hadn’t been paying attention when he came through the first time. 

The shrill, joyous noises were coming from a tiny blond kid with giant round cheeks and sparse teeth. A tall young man chased him around the dirt road that connected a small village of homes. It was far enough off the highway no one would ever drive all the way out to the village unless they meant to. No one except Derek apparently. It was just barely dusk, light enough outside that someone might see him if he kept walking, and he was too tired and broken to put in the effort needed to hide himself. A patch of kudzu nearby hanging from a thin, young live oak was a good enough place to hunker down until nightfall. Darkness would allow him to safely take the dirt road out to the highway, then the river. Maybe catch a fishing boat that would take him closer to New Orleans, if he was lucky. 

Ridiculous growling noises inspired him to spy through the kudzu, trying to see what the young man and the kid were playing at. The kid scrunched his face up, growling fiercely and holding his fingers out like claws. All kids mimicked monsters the same, but it reminded him of how he looked when he changed. The young man made deep growling, snapping noises again, pretending to swat at the kid just like Derek might if he was playing werewolf. Derek wondered if the kid would think he was scary, or just cool if the kid could see him as a werewolf. 

Glare off a pond between him and the two playing caught his attention. It was close, and big enough it should have been alive with all kinds of annoying bugs considering the time of day, but the water was still and quiet. The young man fell to the ground, complaining loudly about being killed, his chest heaving from chasing the little boy around. The little boy jumped on the young man, pretending to pin him down and finish him off, giggling wildly. Kids didn't make noise like that unless they were happy. The kind of happy that came from feeling safe, and getting lots of attention. Whoever the young man was, he was a good father, or maybe a brother. 

“C’mon monster, lets go get your dad.” The young man scooped up the little boy up in his arms and walked to the front porch of a small, white house close by. “Hey Jason, Trudy,” he waved into the open door, through the screen.

The front door opened and the little boy bolted inside. Another man leaned out the screen door and handed the young man a bottle. 

“Thanks Stiles, I appreciate you wearing him out. I feel like such an asshole when he wants to play and I’ve been driving all day,” the dad said. 

“No problem, I’m a terrible stand-in for Scott though. Face is all wrong and I get tired too fast,” Stiles laughed, still a little breathless. “He’ll be back soon if Tommy’s not zonked out by then.” Stiles waved goodbye to Tommy through the open door. 

Brown beer bottle in hand, Stiles meandered through a swingset in the yard of what looked like a parish house, but there was no church to go with it. He came back to the road and headed directly for the pond. He sat down near the waters edge, not caring about the dirt and mud as he sank his feet into the water. The surface rippled around him like glassy waves. His lanky, muscled arms and broad shoulders almost looked wrong under his boyish face. Derek was sure he wasn’t as young as his face might lead a person to believe. His fingers were long and scarred, ropy veins covered the backs of his hands. He was probably in his early twenties, but his huge eyes and upturned nose said sixteen still. 

Leaning over on his knees, Stiles lazily let his hand dangle into the water. The heat was dissipating and the crickets were coming alive, along with the chirping tree frogs and humming drone of the cicadas. About the only thing Derek loved about the Bayou was the chorus of noises at night. The bayou at night was a living thing, something you either learned to love or learned to endure. He loved the chaos, like the grand symphony of nature. He grew up in a dark, green forest full of things that went bump in the night, but it was nothing like the bayou. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/88497419135)

The strange, beautiful young man Derek had accidentally discovered smiled at the water and sunk his hand deep into the pond. Blue light emanated from the water around his arm, twisting and moving under the surface like a living thing. It was the same bright, glowing blue as Derek's eyes. Stunned, curious and frightened all at the same time, Derek stifled his reactions, somehow managing to stay quiet as the blue light turned into a frenzied, writhing layer of tiny glowing fish that looked like fireflies in the water. Slowly, the fish quieted and the pond went dark. Stiles stood and finished off his beer, his hand dripping dirty water. He stepped out into the dirt road and his feet instantly caked with mud, then road dust as the mud fell away. Derek watched in silent fascination as Stiles walked toward one of the smaller houses casually, like nothing remarkable had happened.

Elemental energy was the only thing Derek could think of that would stir up fish that way. Stiles had used powerful forces out in the open, with no concern about who might see him, or what the consequences might be. People who could utilize power like that so easily were rare and elusive. Derek realized people like Stiles were exactly the kind of people he was looking for. It couldn’t hurt to stick around and see if the village was one of the places Peter had warned him about. Derek had learned quickly that Peter described people as dangerous only when those people were dangerous to Peter, not anyone else. Derek had nothing to lose. He wasn't powerful or threatening. He was risking potentially being shot at if they found him and ran him off maybe, but he'd survived worse than bullets. 

A giant, sprawling oak tree lived near the pond. It was the best place around to hide out for a while and silently observe the village. The lowest branches rested against the ground, beckoning to him like long, twisting walkways. He made his way through the leaves and low lying branches until finding one thick enough to take him up without making any noise. Derek wasn't the only one who climbed the tree. He followed a well worn path along the branch, up into the crook of the trunk. Derek climbed higher, far enough he was sure no one else would risk going just for fun, stopping only when the branches swayed dangerously under his feet. He found a place to sit where he could relax and still see the village below him. If it was quiet, he could hear the sounds of people sleeping as well. 

Thick resurrection ferns and spanish moss scratched against his back and arms, but he ignored it. All he had was the clothes he wore, his wallet and a dead cell phone that didn't work out here anyways. Comfort wasn't his priority, finding someone who would help him was. He could always go to Scarlett Willow, but the price she wanted him to pay was too high. She might be kind hearted and more honest than Peter, but that didn’t make her less dangerous to Derek. 

Laying back on the branch, Derek watched the stars blink and flicker against the newly dark sky. Comfortable warmth spread over his chest and back as he relaxed against the branches. There was power in the village and it felt familiar and safe. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be so quiet and content. His instincts told him he was safe enough to get real sleep for the first time in a long time. An overwhelming sensation of relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes, exhausted. He hadn't felt so good in a long time.


	2. Lost and Found

Stiles jumped carefully from root to root trying to not leave footprints behind. He was close to the edge of Peter Hale’s property. They had no issues with the Hales, but there was no harm in being mindful of who he announced his presence to. Shrill heron calls rang out, letting Stiles know he was too close for their comfort. The shallow, slow moving river was east, technically, but the ground was muddy and wet enough to keep the herons happy for miles. 

It was still morning, but the humid, stagnant summer air was already too hot. He considered taking his shirt off again, but he liked it and he was too prone to losing them when he shoved them in his back pocket. A tree branch groaned behind him. The sound was far too loud for the still air. He stopped, pretending to look for his next foothold as he quietly searched for the source of the noise. A gust of wind through the dense cypress almost masked the sound, but this time it was above him. 

Only two things that heavy could get so far up in a cypress, and Stiles was one of them. If it was a werewolf, there wasn't much Stiles could do about it. He could protect himself just fine, but not until the thing was right in front of him. If it was curious, all Stiles was doing was leading it someplace it couldn’t go. There was no point in being careful or covering his tracks anymore, so he let his bare feet sink into the springy, wet ground. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/87828453105)

Being stalked by a werewolf while he was searching for an elusive patch of wolfsbane was exactly the kind of ironic shit that made Stiles question the greater plans of the universe the way he did. Deep down it all felt like a big cosmic joke. Fear tickled the back of his mind though, motivating to move faster than he intended to go. Stiles didn't want to tip the thing off, but adrenaline and fear were working against him. If his instincts said to run, he should run, he knew that much. He could maybe even lose the werewolf if he broke some of his own rules. Stiles was the one who always said God helped those who helped themselves. Even though he was fairly certain the old adage wasn’t in the bible, it was probably still true. 

Slowly lowering himself to his knees, Stiles dug his hands into the dense, wet moss that filled the space between the roots of the giant cypress trees. One thing that worked in Stiles' favor: it was likely the werewolf would have no idea what he was doing until it was too late. His long, thin fingers pushed through the muddy green vegetation easily, searching for the sweet spot. It was the place where power writhed and pulsed under the surface of the mud like the living thing it was. All the plant life around him was connected by microscopic tendrils of power, sustained by growth and death. It was nothing more than decomposition feeding life in an endless cycle, but it was as old and powerful as old as the universe itself. 

The picture in his mind was always the same. Bright blue streams of energy rising from the ground, traveling through his veins, turning his skin cold like ice. No matter how pretty it looked in his head, when Stiles opened his eyes it was still the same old mud, moss, and clammy hands. Stiles let go of the earth when his heart was full and satisfied. Smiling because the rush of power always made him feel a little high, Stiles climbed to his feet and took in the world around him with his newly heightened senses. His eyes were clear and strong, the sounds around him were razor sharp. The extra energy burned in his muscles restlessly, begging him to use the inhuman strength and speed that was waiting there. The impatient, fiery need to burn some off was a sign he had taken on just the wrong side of enough power. Stiles had to learn to be more careful if he didn't want the drawbacks to kill him eventually. 

Scanning around him for his werewolf stalker, Stiles heard a quick heartbeat, drumming with fear or excitement above him. The sound resonated like something familiar. A solid vision flashed through his mind of the bright, glowing blue energy Stiled usually only associated with himself. He listened closer, wondering if it really was a werewolf at all. Werewolves made him see red, sometimes orange or purple, always the colors of fire and chaos. Most importantly they were colors he had no sway over. This creature was something new. Cold as ice and quiet, like Stiles. Maybe it wasn't stalking him or excited to pounce, maybe it was something that was attracted to him because they were the same. A faint creak let Stiles know he had gotten too comfortable with it. The creature shifted on a branch, suddenly much closer and adrenaline surged through him. He wasn't curious enough about the creature though, to ignore his infallible instincts and get killed for his trouble. 

Determined to get the upper hand, or lose the thing completely, Stiles shot forward, running as fast as he could. He headed south, deeper into the bayou. The creature hesitated, but gave chase. It's heartbeat hammering in it's chest. The sound of breathing past big teeth, and claws sinking into the dirt behind him was enough proof for Stiles he was being chased by a werewolf, no matter how improbable it seemed. The world around him was a blur as his feet flew over the ground. If the patch of wolfsbane was where Trudy said it would be, he had to go slower or he wouldn’t be able to stop before he passed it. The ground focused as he slowed, and the prickly, floral scent of aconite surrounded him. The creature was miraculously still close behind him as Stiles came skidding to a stop. His bare feet fought against momentum and slick mud, cutting a wide path through the patch of deadly purple flowers. 

His fingers sank into the muddy ground, breaking roots and stems as he dug in past the toxicity, Stiles hoped. Taking in the energy from the earth around the wolfsbane was just as deadly as consuming it, if not more so. Stiles wouldn’t draw against it unless he had to. There was no guarantee how deep roots went in soft dirt, and he needed to keep a clear head if he wanted to extract himself in one piece. 

“You don’t have to hide now, bet nan bwa. Why don't you come on out and say hello,” Stiles called out. 

Listening close, Stiles could hear it breathing, nervous and scared. Air moving past teeth that were too large. Still, Stiles hoped it was a curious kid, or maybe a pretty girl--if he was lucky. The flash of shadow falling from a nearby tree and a hollow, heavy thud made Stiles pray for a thick, wild eyed girl. One that wasn't hunting him for bad reasons. Who maybe might smile and blush when he said the right things. Instead, a gigantic, dirty, feral looking werewolf stepped through the brush and into the clearing. It moved cautiously, curious, but it was huge and terrifying. It stalked closer, turning it's clear, murderous scowl on Stiles like it intended to brave the wolfsbane and attack anyways. 

Instinct and fear forced Stiles to draw against the power of the earth surrounding his hands. Instead of filling his heart with bright blue energy that was a little tainted by aconite, his eyes went heavy and his vision went dark. The sharp, ugly scent of wolfsbane and death filled his lungs. His eyes burned with grief and guilt. He was drawing on the energy over a werewolf's grave. 

Stiles cursed himself loudly, in his own head because his mouth was paralyzed like the rest of him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner, it was so obvious. The wolfsbane kept people and other werewolves from trying to dig up the werewolf's body for countless nefarious purposes. He was paralyzed, hexed by the very power he accidentally tried to steal from the grave dirt. It was a law of nature older than the wolfsbane, but it was temporary. The dead man’s curse. Unfortunately the tingling sensation creeping over his skin like crawling, biting ants wasn’t temporary. Unless Stiles somehow got out of the patch of wolfsbane, it would kill him before the paralyzation wore off. 

Disorientation and vertigo made his head floaty and his skin was numb. Wolfsbane was an anesthetic, that’s how it was going to kill him. Stiles was going to hallucinate, probably horrible, terrifying things, then his heart would stop as his nervous system shut down. A heavy, pulling sensation in his shoulders made his vision clear for a moment. Bright sky burned his eyes. He was moving, unless he was hallucinating already. Heavy, hoarse, breathing and a loud thud behind him gave him hope it wasn’t a hallucination. He wouldn’t hallucinate the big werewolf saving him, or his savior passing out. That was too much reality for his overactive imagination. 

Stiles concentrated on the breathing of the man next to him until it slowed so much he couldn’t hear it anymore. He had no idea why the menacing looking werewolf would risk his own life to pull Stiles out, but he couldn’t let a man he didn't even know die for him if there was any hope something could be done. The man obviously didn't want Stiles dead. Whatever threat Stiles felt was a mistake. The man had only been curious, and never meant Stiles harm. It was the only explanation that ended in the man acting so heroically. Someone like that deserved everything Stiles could give him, then some. 

Using all of his willpower and what was left of the clean power he had absorbed before, Stiles focused intensely on healing his hands and arms. If he could focus on destroying the aconite on the skin of his hands alone, it might help him regain control of the rest of himself soon enough to help the man. Silently, he asked the werewolf he disturbed for forgiveness. He hoped his intention to help one of it's own was enough to get the spirit's attention. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose. Suddenly his muscles screamed and ached as he came back to life. Either the spirit hear him or he healed much quicker than he expected. The numbness from the wolfsbane was wearing off as well, leaving only the pain and punishment of disturbing the grave behind. The pain motivated him, made him thankful to be alive. Stiles forced himself up slowly, then lifted himself up until he was teetering on wobbly knees. 

The werewolf was deathly pale and still when Stiles finally got to him. How Stiles could have possibly thought the oversized kid in front of him was intimidating, or feral looking, was a complete mystery. With his disturbingly murderous eyes closed, and the wolf faded from his face, the kid was alarmingly beautiful and shaped like a greek statue or someone in a magazine. Whoever he was, he had risked his life to save Stiles, and he was dying. Stiles had to force himself to move through the pain and weakness that still had a hold on him and do something. 

Leaning over the man, Stiles listened for signs of life. There was no breath and no heartbeat. Stiles trembled like a leaf as his body tried to expel the last of the death he had absorbed, but he managed to position himself directly over the guy, moving much slower than he wanted to. Making both his hands into a fist, Stiles pressed down on the man's chest fifteen times like he had seen people do in movies. He wasn't sure if it was right, but it was better than doing nothing. 

The effort loosened Stiles' muscles, helping him breathe easier. Stiles was worried about breathing for the man like he was sure you were supposed to. With the last of the dead man’s curse still lingering in his body, most importantly his lungs, Stiles could make things much worse, but It was now or never. Stiles was surprised by how easy it was to make the man’s chest rise and slowly fall. Listening intently, Stiles waited. Werewolves were well known for coming back to life just because you wanted them to, or didn't want them to. The more you cared, the more likely it was, and Stiles cared a lot. He almost gave up on the folklore to hammer on the guys chest some more, but the faint thud of a heartbeat made him breathe a deep sigh of relief. The guy still wasn't breathing though, so Stiles kept breathing for him every couple seconds until the man's chest started rising and falling on it's own. 

Standing was easier than Stiles expected. His arms and legs were jerky and stiff, but not as bad as they should have been. The curse was passing quickly. The spirit he disturbed was most certainly showing him mercy. Intent on keeping his promise to the spirit, and the werewolf who saved him, Stiles searched the small clearing. He was looking for anything that might help the man’s condition. There were a dozen plants that were good at purification, but for a werewolf, silver wormwood was best. Luckily, it grew all around the bayou giant, waist high clumps. It was never too far away, and easy to spot. 

Not seeing any directly in sight, Stiles walked to the edge of the clearing and spotted a large, silvery plant that looked about right a short walk away. Gathering it would take him further from the werewolf than he was comfortable with. Stiles couldn’t risk leaving him unprotected, even for a few seconds, not near the grave. Powerful graves attracted malicious, opportunistic spirits. Unconcious and hurt, the werewolf was vulnerable to all sorts of ethereal creatures and shades that didn’t dare come near Stiles. But they would happily make quick work of the unprotected werewolf. 

“Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle." Rolling the man onto his side, Stiles traced his finger over the man’s shoulder, drawing out the symbols he knew by heart while he recited Saint Michael’s prayer. "Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May god rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, by the power of god, cast into hell all evil spirits who prowl throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls." Stiles paused when the man’s eyes fluttered open, then closed again. "Amen."

The archangel Michaels prayer was his most powerful connection to the other side. It took almost everything he had left to anchor the protection to the werewolf, but Stiles wasn't going to be conservative with his power around something as dangerous as an hidden, unmarked werewolf grave. The prayer would banish everything evil for miles, and cling to the man for days, displacing anything that might take advantage of his weakened state. Sometimes it even worked like supernatural confession, clearing the soul of lingering weight from previous sins and transgressions. Nothing could touch a person then. It was like being reborn, clean and new. Stiles wasn't surprised the werewolf felt it enough to make his eyes open for a moment, even if he was still unconcious. Stiles had been told when Stiles marked a person with Saint Michael's it was like a deafening ring slamming into your ears, and white light that seared your brain, for just a second. One second too long when you weren't expecting it, Stiles was sure. 

After resting for a moment Stiles checked the werewolf again. His eyes were still shut and he was still breathing too shallow. “Hang on buddy, I’ll be right back,” Stiles said, just in case the guy was conscious enough to hear him.

While he collected the silver wormwood Stiles hoped to renew himself a little. He dug his toes into the ground near the wormwod and let his feet absorb a little good, clean power. He felt a little better, but he needed to let himself heal naturally. He gathered what he needed from the plant and a moment later he was back at the man’s side. Stiles turned him over and laid the leaves out on the guy's chest before he realized he couldn’t do what he intended the way he was accustomed, not to a werewolf. The universe had decided long ago that fire and water didn't mix. 

“Both our lives would be easier right now if you weren’t a werewolf, Hoss," Stiles sighed. "Shit, we never would have been here to begin with.” Stiles placed a few of the leaves under the man's shirt, close to his heart, then crushed them with his knuckles against the werewolf's sternum. Stiles rambled absently as he worked, distracting himself from how bad the guy looked. “I would have come out here by myself and gone right back home, bored to tears. I probably would have been home by now actually. Drinking beer and sitting by the pond maybe. And you?" Stiles paused to look at his work. The guy's shirt was stained green and wet from the wormwood. It was time consuming to crush the leaves and let them naturally absorb, but it would eventually kick in. "I bet you'd be in the french quarter, sipping champagne and eating brunch with a fancy white jacket and tie. You could probably get away with wearing this ratty tank top because they wouldn't mind. Not with that face." Stiles laughed at himself for sounding like he was hitting on the guy. He wasn't trying, he was just letting his mouth and his brain get away from him. "Either way, you'd sure as hell wouldn't be out here, chasing me down and almost getting us both killed.” 

“Why?” the man said hoarsely. Stiles jumped back, surprised. The guy's voice was faint but his exasperated sigh was strong. 

“Shit," Stiles cursed. 

"Why?" the man said again. He was cowling with his eyes closed, maybe dreaming? 

"I don't know why you tried to get us both killed, especially when you obviously don't want me dead,” Stiles snorted and barked out a loud, nervous laugh. 

"No," the guy shook his head, his scowl deepening. 

"Thanks for pulling my dumb ass out of the fire though, I do appreciate that." Stiles wanted to reach out and touch the guy's face, but he was suddenly painfully concious of how dirty his hands were. 

“No, why brunch?” The man held on to his scowl as he opened his eyes, bringing his hand up to his face to block out the sun. 

“Brother, you gotta know you don't look like you belong here, no matter how dirty you are.” Stiles laughed, amused that was the part of his tirade the guy chose to fixate on. “What’s your name then?” Stiles asked. 

“Derek,” the young man answered, not giving a last name. 

“You have a family name, or just the one?” Stiles asked. 

“Hale,” Derek said, watching Stiles' face for a reaction. 

It was clear Derek's mental acuity was in tact if he understood the impact his name could have on the wrong people. Bravely, he shared it anyways. The family resemblance was apparent in Derek’s stern expression and dark hair, not to mention the fact that the Hales were mostly born wolves. 

“I know we’re close to your land, but you’re kinda far from the homestead, and a little young to be keeping an eye on things. You lost?” Stiles asked. 

“No.” Derek stared at him, his eyes intent and focused, but this time they weren't murderous or terrifying, only curious. 

“I’ll take you back," Stiles offered, not really believing Derek. "If you can guarantee I’ll be able to get out with my hide intact?" 

“No, I can't go back,” Derek said quietly. He dropped his hand, his eyes falling closed again. 

“Can’t or don't want to?” 

“Both.” Derek struggled to lift himself up so he was sitting properly. Stiles reached out to help him, but Derek shot him a fearful glance that stopped Stiles dead in his tracks. 

“I understand the not wanting to part," Stiles said gently. "Are you just hanging out here in the wilds then, hoping to find enough trouble to get yourself dead?” 

Derek's eyes went dark and narrow as he pressed his lips into a straight, unhappy line. Stiles was at least right enough to piss Derek off, which was nothing new for Stiles. Possessing the ability to get to the heart of a matter fairly quickly, and not caring enough about pleasantries to filter himself, left Stiles friendless on more than one occasion. Derek glanced up at him again warily, his tense jaw and unwillingness to talk meant Derek was done explaining why he was there, and what he was up to. But it wasn't any of Stiles' business anyhow.

Whatever happened to cause the situation they found themselves in was only a misunderstanding at it's heart. Derek hadn't intended to hurt him, that was obvious. Usually Stiles' instincts were spot on, but sometimes he was wrong and he was always willing to admit it. Especially if it meant cleaning up a mess he made. Stiles couldn’t leave the guy out in the bayou to be found by the Hale pack. He owed Derek his health back, at the very least. It was hard to imagine Derek being out in the wilds alone. He was too young, and maybe a little too curious to survive for long even in good condition. Good was something Derek was far from at the moment. 

“Do you think you can walk?” Stiles asked. Derek shook his head, no. “Okay, let me get what I came for and we'll go." Stiles pointed at Derek's chest. "That's gonna make you feel better a lot faster. You feel it working?" he asked. 

Derek looked down at his shirt then pulled it open. He rubbed his chest and took a deep breath, a deep, thoughtful scowl making him look almost dangerous again. "Yeah, maybe?" Derek offered. 

"You chew on the rest and I promise, after a few, you’ll feel a lot better.” Stiles pointed to the few silver leaves that had fallen into Derek's lap. 

Gathering up the leaves cautiously, Derek waited until Stiles looked busy to inspect one of them closely and do as he'd been told. Lucky for Derek silver wormwood tasted like wintergreen and sage. It was a much more pleasant medicine than it could have been. Not willing to risk any further exposure, Stiles rolled the wolfsbane tightly in his shirt and stuffed the bundle in the long cargo pocket on the leg of his shorts. All of the stems would be broken by the time he got home, but it probably didn't matter. Trudy wanted it for the seeds. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you up.” Stiles held out his hand, ready to go. 

“Then what?” Derek asked gruffly. 

“Then I’ll help you walk. We’ll go clean up, eat some food, maybe drink a beer? You can tell me all about you, and then--if you're worth the trouble--I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine who might be able to help you more than I can.” Stiles laid out his offer without any sarcasm to make it easy on the guy. They were both feeling like shit, and they deserved a little mercy. 

Derek’s expression softened. He braced himself against the ground and tried to get up on his own. Stiles held his hand closer, but Derek only stared at it like it might bite him. “I don't think you can help me as much as I need,” Derek admitted. 

"C'mon Hoss, try me," Stiles goaded, gesturing for Derek to take his hand. "I bet you recall I'm faster than I look? Continue to suspend disbelief,” Stiles pressed.

Derek slapped his outstretched hand, grasping it tightly. He pulled back roughly, frustrated and expecting Stiles to falter. Derek looked alarmed when Stiles lifted him to his feet, easily, as promised. Derek was obviously relieved when the arm that Stiles clasped around his shoulders held him steady. Derek was a big guy. He was only a smidge taller than Stiles, but he weighed a lot more. Thankfully the strength he took from the wormwood would take a long time to wear off, as long as he didn't have to run again. Once he was sure Derek was steady on his feet, Stiles pulled Derek’s arm over his shoulder and found a solid hold to keep him in place. 

“Ready?” Stiles asked. It was obvious Derek was uncomfortable so close to him, but they didn't have much choice. A scarce nod was all he got from Derek before he took a tentative step forward. “Don’t worry, once you get moving, get your blood circulating, you’ll heal quick,” Stiles assured him.

Winding around the twisting roots of the cypress trees and underbrush was challenging and slow, but Stiles pushed them to move as fast as Derek could tolerate. Though Stiles didn't feel the need to question the reasons Derek had for avoiding his pack, he assumed they didn't want to accidentally run into any of them. When they were a more comfortable distance from Hale territory, Stiles relaxed and let Derek set the pace. As Derek healed a little and picked up speed, Stiles’ shoulders got sore, and his back ached. It wasn’t anything Stiles hadn't done before, in worse circumstances, so they kept moving until they were most of the way back home. 

Not far from the village Derek asked to take a break. When Stiles finally let go of Derek rubbed at his arm and Stiles noticed a huge, swollen red spot where his muddy hand had been holding Derek’s arm over his shoulder. He realized the mud was infused with wolfsbane. It had been slowly burning Derek's skin like acid. Disturbingly, the burn was shaped exactly like his handprint. 

“Shit, why didn't you say something? We have to get rid of that, it could still kill you.” Stiles wanted to reach out and inspect the wound, but his hands were the cause. He rubbed them on his shorts but he had sweat off the worst of it already. "Check your side where my other hand was," Stiles asked. 

Derek lifted his tank top but his skin was just a little pink, nothing terrible. “I didn't feel it till just a couple minutes ago.” Derek lloked over the redness curiously, like the pain wasn't a problem. 

“Aconite's an anesthetic, but if you can feel it you’re probably healing up," Stiles offered. "If you can move on your own it would be a lot faster.” Stiles stood and Derek followed, finally standing on his own. 

"My head hurts, sort of spinning, like vertigo, but I think I can walk." Derek took a few steps with his hand firmly planted on Stiles' shoulder. Then he let go and started walking on his own. It took him a while to find a steady pace. A minute later he was jogging, then running. 

It wasn’t long before Stiles was struggling to keep up. It became obvious real quick that Derek knew exactly where he was going. He took the lead and guided them back to the edge of the dense trees that surrounded the village. Derek slowed down and looked over his shoulder to check on Stiles it was obvious he wasn't doing well at all. He was deathly pale again and his eyes looked dark, like he was barely keeping them open. Derek made his way throught the trees and stopped to wait for Stiles just before they reached aunt Melissa’s back yard. Leaning against a tree to steady himself, Derek swayed, pitching forward awkwardly. Stiles rushed to steady him, but it was clear he wasn't going to catch himself. Stiles cursed as he pitted himself against Derek's downward trajectory and won, miraculously. Derek was so big Stiles fumbled clumsily for a moment, trying to keep him upright, then got a good grip around his chest. 

"Scotty!" Stiles shouted. "A little help!" Stiles waited a moment, taking the time to catch his breath and make a backup plan. Either Scott wasn't around or he was preoccupied and not listening. “God dammit, you are a fucking pain in my ass," Stiles cursed. "Probably a stalker. I should leave you out here to rot,” Stiles said as he mentally prepared himself to maneuver Derek over his shoulder. "I don't care about the goddamned rules. Just because you found us..." Stiles sighed, his anger and frustration quickly losing momentum. Derek was obviously welcome. The nematon chose him and that was the last sign. Instead of being mad Stiles listed off all the reasons he should help Derek, starting with the fact he owed him, he was brave, soft spoken, chock full of perseverance and determination, and he was painfully easy to look at.

"Maybe I can stand to be the knight in shiny armor one last time? I think that leaves you owing me though, Hoss," Stiles laughed before he carefully inched his way down Derek's chest until most of his weight was on Stiles' shoulder. "Hold on now, if I fall we're both gonna be worse for wear," Stiles warned even though Derek wasn't awake to hear him. 

With considerable effort he lifted Derek up on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around Derek’s thighs to hold him in place. Stiles shifted the huge werewolf until he was as comfortable as he was going to get hanging over Stiles' shoulder like a sack of flour. Once Derek was stable, Stiles considered how stupid he was. He should have just left Derek and come back with help. All the sudden Stiles felt like he was being watched. It wasn't the kind of feeling Stiles might get if one of the Hale pack spotted them and followed them back. It was much worse. Something that twisted Stiles gut with dread. A malicious kind of evil that might have followed them back from the grave hoping to get a bite on Derek, and was angry now that he was about to go where it wouldn't be able to follow them. It took all the debate out of what to do next. 

“I'm probably saving both our asses, but fuck this.” Stiles wheezed as he stumbled through the trees unsteadily, making his way into Melissa’s back yard. 

Everyone was probably up at the parish house. Stiles didn't bother trying to see if Melissa was home. He was struggling to breathe under all Derek’s weight, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other. Any minute someone would see him and help. Stopping was not an option because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to get back up, or call out loud enough if he couldn't. The last thing either of them needed was to die a few feet outside the view of the parish house and not be found till long after dinner. Stiles kept his eyes on his feet, his mind on the goal of simply taking the next step until he heard Becca’s shrill scream, then he stopped. His muscles were cramped and frozen. He was unable to drop Derek, or lower himself to the ground carefully. Standing and waiting for a few more miserable seconds was his best option. 

A cacophony of voices descended on him, asking questions he couldn’t answer. Melissa broke through the loudest, the voice of reason. “Stiles, let go honey, we have him.” 

Letting Derek go meant he could drop to his knees. He planned his actions out in his head, ticking off the seconds as he waited for Derek to feel lighter. Then he waited until he was sure they had him. After that he let himself fall. He didn't hit the ground like he expected though. Becca and his grandmother had ahold of him. 

“Forward, boy,” his grandmother commanded, and he complied, unwilling to argue. 

Soothing cold infused his skin where his grandmother's hands held him up. She wasn’t as powerful as he was, but she knew how to heal water to water, enough to take the edge off at least. Immediately his lungs worked again. Stiles took a deep breath and walked a little taller as they followed the group of women carrying Derek to the parish house. They were moving him in a tablecloth sling, and it took four of them to heft him up the stairs. They dropped him on the long bench, under the window on the front porch. Becca pushed on his shoulder, urging him to keep going as they headed toward the front door. Stiles hesitated because he expected to stay with Derek, even thought he was safe now. Some deep instinct to protect him was overriding Stiles' sense of self preservation. He relented and followed Becca because he was being unreasonable. Derek was safe in the hands of his family. Safer than he probably had been in a long time. 

His eyes ached as they tried to adjust to the dark of the inside lights after being in the bright daylight all day. Unable to see a thing, Stiles let them lead the way to the kitchen. Becca and his grandmother deposited him right in front of the big kitchen sink. 

“Wait, wait.” Stiles held up his hands. He yanked the shirt out of his shorts pocket and handed it to Becca “It’s the wolfsbane from east of Telequa. Tell Trudy that.” 

“Is he a werewolf?” Becca asked. She was making a phenomenal deduction based on very little information and a whole lot of instinct. It still surprised him sometimes, just like it surprised everyone else when he did it. 

“Yes, tell Melissa. He’s a Hale, but he’s not a guest, we’re giving him sanctuary,” Stiles explained. Becca nodded and ran out the kitchen door with the wolfsbane clutched tight in her little hands. 

“Boy, you stink of aconite. Rinse off before you get it everywhere,” his grandmother demanded. Stiles leaned over the large tile sink and fumbled with the faucet. His grandmother took over, letting him lean over the edge of the sink as she washed his face and arms. “You need to let it all out," she warned. Stiles nodded, but didn't have the energy or the focus to expell the aconite from his system or he would have done it a long time ago. He needed a minute, and a lot more cold water. "You need me to help you?” she asked as she scrubbed his shoulders with a wet dish towel. 

All he wanted was to let go and suffer through the pain while someone else stripped it out of him, but his grandmother was too old and fragile to help that much anymore. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the water in his veins, his artieris, pumping through his heart. If he was focused enough he could see it all, every little particle that floated in the water that he was made of. The pain in his arms made him tremble as he held himself up against the bottom of the deep sink. The sensation of ice cold needles pricked over the skin of his chest and neck as he concentrated on moving the toxins. The water was his element, his hands were suberged in the torrential swirling at the botom of the sink. Water loved him and wanted to help him. Stiles closed his eyes and searched through his blood, visualizing the toxins moving out of his muscles and skin, and into his veins. The long, twisting arteries in his neck turned ice cold as the toxins gathered in his throat. 

Ugly, hoarse coughing sent stabbing pain through his ribs. He continued to cough, opening his eyes only when he took a deep breath. Dark purple blood swirled down the drain, blooming in the water like a toxic hurricane. He coughed one more time, expelling the last of the poison. The substance was gone, but the echo it left in his body was fever and burning in his lungs. His grandmothers hands were cool and comforting on his overheated skin but it wasn;t enough to help. Pain stabbed at his chest, searing his lungs with each breath. Panic welled up inside his chest as the heat continued to grow, scorching his throat. His breath was blistering steam against his lips, and his skin was flush pink with fever. 

“Aconite is fire, what are you?” his grandmother asked. "Aconite is fire, what are you?" his grandmother demanded, bringing his attention back to the fact that he was home, he was safe. 

Fire and water were elements, and elements were subject to a series of facts he knew as well as his own name. “I am water,” Stiles answered. "I am water to the flame." The words, and what they meant, calmed his mind. He had the power to control the echo of a little aconite, of all things. 

“To extinguish a flame what do you need?” His grandmother gripped the back of his neck firmly, demanding his best, everything he had left to give, he had to give. 

“Ice,” Stiles breathed out in a whisper. 

Frigid water flowed over his head and neck as he held his breath. He didn’t need to fight the fire the wolfsbane left behind. Struggling with it would end in allowing it to boil one part of him as he fought to control another. All he had to do was reject it. Deny it oxygen, deny it warmth, and snuff it out. Fire couldn’t live inside him unless he allowed it. Two spiritual elements couldn't reside in one body and the aconite had left behind a scar. If he let it, it would tear him apart from the inside out. But fire was the easiest of the elements for him to reject, it was his cardinal opposite. As he reminded himself of all these things his skin cooled and he relaxed. Stiles drew in a long breath and let it slowly out his nose. As he exhaled cold fog billowed around his face and vanished, like warm breath on a freezing day. 

“Good, much better.” his grandmother rubbed his back soothingly, pleased by what he'd done. “You did good, boy. Real good. Go home, clean up. We’ll take care of your friend.” 

Water fell off his face and cheeks as his grandmother wiped it away with her hands. She made him bend down so she could kiss his face and forehead, her glassy, dark brown eyes pulled tight with concern. Stiles hugged her thin shoulders, thankful for the familiar half English, half French prayer she whispered in his ear. 

Renewed and full of energy, Stiles ran back to his house. He stripped his clothes off as he walked in the door to keep from spreading the wolfsbane around and shoved them in the washing machine. He hurried, not knowing how bad off Derek really was, or if they were going to need his help. He grabbed a towel and the nail scrubber for his feet before he jumped in the shower. As he was finishing up putting on clean clothes, his front door banged loudly against the wood paneling on his wall as it flew open. 

“Stiles! Gran sent me over to throw this in the wash!” Becca screeched from the front room. The door to the washing machine banged shut and the water turned on. “I started it!” she shouted a little less urgently. 

“Thank you!” Stiles called out. “Is he okay? Did they tell you anything?” he asked, shouting back from his bedroom like the uncivilized people they were. 

“He’s really hot," Becca said, surprisingly. "Like attractive, not temperature wise,” Becca added for clarification as she suddenly invaded the doorway to his room. “Gran says to give me your Sunday shirt.” 

“Why my Sunday shirt?” he asked.

“Because it is too big for you, and it’s the only shirt you have that will fit him, and even though he might be out for a long time he should have something decent to wear when he wakes up,” Becca said, probably repeating the discussion she had just overheard. 

“I have plenty of shirts that will fit him that aren’t my Sunday best,” Stiles shook his head. 

“Oh, which one? You gonna give him your ‘I support single moms’ shirt? Or maybe the mud flap betty with the really big tits?” Becca twisted her face up in a snarl, making fun of his admittedly terrible taste in clothing. 

He opened his shirt drawer and pulled out a Led Zepplin shirt. Becca scrunched up her nose and shook her head. He grabbed a shirt with a big wolf head on it that Scott loved and Becca laughed. “Oh, my god, why does this even matter?” Stiles asked, holding up his empty hands in frustration as he rifled through his shirt drawer again. 

“Because you don't want him thinking you’re you.” Becca threw open his closet door with all the finesse of an elephant, and pulled his white, button up shirt off the hanger. She glared over her shoulder like she expected a challenge then made a break for it. 

“Go, devil monkey, fly away!” Stiles called after her as she ran down the hall. “Thank you!” he called out gratefully, right before his front door slammed shut. She had no idea how to move quietly through the world, but he secretly liked that about her. She was a force of nature. 

It did annoy Stiles though that the first thing Becca said to him was that Derek was cute. Then she was concerned about what Derek thought of him, and his clothes, as if it mattered. Derek wasn’t a date he brought back to meet the family, he was a guy that needed help and maybe a few friends. Stiles ran his fingers through his drying hair, he stood up straight and tried to shake off the weirdness he let Becca plant in his head. 

Back at the parish house Trudy sat with Derek on the front porch, quietly watching the kids play on the swingset under the oak tree in the side yard. Becca was back amongst them, reigning over them like a benevolent queen, but that was her job as the oldest child. 

"Thank you for watching him," Stiles said graciously as he leaned against the front porch post.

"You cleaned up good. Looked about half dead and wild eyed like y'all were being chased?" Trudy asked. 

"Maybe, if there's trouble, it'll come," Stiles shrugged. 

"Nothing to worry about," Trudy assured him. "I'll go fix you a plate, sit down," she offered as she stood up. She came back a few minutes later with a two glasses of mint tea and a big bowl of strawberries. 

The strawberries were huge, and red like blood. He ate one carefully, but he still had to clean the stains off his fingers with his mouth. Everything his aunt Trudy grew in her garden was spectacular. All the berries, flowers and herbs grew like weeds. Sometimes they grew so big they almost tore down trellis, and engulfed the long fence along her back yard. Trudy and Becca were both like him, but Trudy was intuitive, controlling fire elements. She could have taken the aconite from his body, but it would have been painful, and it might have left a permanent scar. Intuitive meant she willed it to happen and it just did. She didn't have to focus like Stiles, but when she did her plants would grow and ripen overnight with a simple thought. They didn't know what Becca was yet, they just knew she was special. 

Stiles was down to his last inch of mint tea when Derek woke up. He blinked a lot and sat up slowly, first taking in his surroundings, then the long gauze bandage on his arm. The dark poultice under the white gauze would eventually seep through and turn neon green. It would smell like black jelly beans, but it wasn't so bad. Stiles had seen the same kind of bandage before on both Isaac and Scott. They hated the stuff, but Stiles had always liked the smell. 

Derek ran his fingers over the bandage and lifted it to his nose. “It smells like licorice,” he said absently, his eyes heavy with sleep. 

“It’s Star Anise.” Stiles waited until Derek rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked back over at him like he expected more of an explanation. “There’s this biosynthetic compound called shikimic acid that helps your body metabolize the poisons in the wolfsbane,” he explained.

Mild bewilderment flashed across Derek’s tired face as he listened. He sat up the rest of the way and put his feet down on the floor of the porch before he relaxed against the house, gingerly lowering his arm like it still hurt. Derek accepted what Stiles said without question, which meant he understood perfectly, or he understood nothing at all. It only took a moment for Becca to notice Derek was awake. She ran up the front steps, followed by the rest of her disciples. The gaggle of children descended upon them in a flurry of noise and questions, asking who Derek was and where Stiles had found him. He expected Derek to be annoyed, but he sat quietly. Patient, as if he was waiting for one of them to make sense. 

“Whoa, one at a time!” Stiles shouted, not seeing any good reason to run them off. Derek obviously didn't mind the attention. 

“Are you really a werewolf?” Bobby, Becca’s younger brother asked loudly. 

Derek looked over at Stiles, concerned, expecting a bad reaction probably. The kids stared at Derek waiting for an answer. Derek waited for Stiles to give him permission, but it was Derek’s business who he told or not. Stiles shrugged, letting Derek know he didn't care either way. 

“I am a werewolf," Derek answered hesitantly. "My name is Derek Hale." Stiles admired that he didn't try to hide the fact that he was a Hale from the kids more than his bravery in admitting he was a werewolf. 

“My name is Rebecca Monroe, that’s my brother Bobby.” Becca shook Derek’s hand politely then elbowed Bobby in the shoulder. Bobby just stared at Derek, oddly fascinated. “Bobby,” Becca hissed at her younger brother unhappily. 

Bobby, who was only eight and still learning manners, stepped forward stoically and shook Derek’s hand. “I’m Robert Monroe, but you can call me Bobby. It’s nice to meet you.” 

The grin that broke over Derek’s face as he shook Bobby’s hand was astounding. He looked like an entirely different person. All the kids took it as a sign that he was fair game and introduced themselves, then started asking the most absurd questions, like kids tended to do. The conversation devolved into a game of one upmanship between Bobby and their cousin Tyler, who was seven. Before they treaded on embarrassing subject matter accidentally, like kids also tended to do, Stiles decided to interrupt. 

“He’s beat to hell guys, give him a break huh?” Stiles laughed. 

“C’mon, lets play tag, Bobby, you’re it!” Becca smacked Bobby on the shoulder and ran down the stairs. All the other kids ran after her like a screeching pack of hyenas. 

“We can go inside if the noise is too much,” Stiles offered. 

“No, it’s fine,” Derek grinned. 

The sweet tea and strawberries vanished as soon as he handed them to Derek. Stiles offered to get him more, and left before Derek had the chance answer. He could already tell Derek was one of those people who would always say he was fine instead of admitting he wanted anything, because Stiles was the exact same way. He rifled through the refrigerator, piling up a big pie tin with leftovers, bread, cheese and butter. Stiles had lived with Scott for long enough to know a healing werewolf was a bottomless pit when it came to food. 

As Stiles was hacking off a big slice of last nights ham when Trudy’s husband Jason came in the back door with big bags marked 'Monroe: Venison Sausage'. There were probably a lot more treasures in the bags, but Stiles was intrigued by the promise of venison sausage. They had always eaten well, but ever since Scott and the rest of the werewolves took up hunting as their favorite pastime, they were eating more exotically. His grandmother greeted Jason and kissed him warmly, thanking him for running the errands in town. She started unpacking and putting everything away, but Jason was helping. Stiles cleaned up his mess, excited about the packages of sausage piled high next to the big soup pot on the counter.

“What are we having tonight?” Stiles asked with wide, hungry eyes. 

“Spicy beans and cornbread,” his grandmother answered, pulling the last of the pies out of the giant, cast iron oven. 

“That sounds so good, I can't wait,” he said as he backed out of the kitchen with his tray full of food. 

Outside Derek was sitting cross legged on the bench. He had found the button up shirt on the chair next to him and put it on even though no one would bat an eye at him being shirtless. They were hard pressed to get Scott to even put one on in the summer time. He had the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the top three buttons undone. Then Stiles noticed the edges of matching the tan lines on Derek's arms and chest. Stiles wondered if he used to go to private school, or if he was old enough for a job where he wore button ups every day. Either way it wasn’t a sign of bayou living, even at the Hale house. 

"For you then," Stiles offered the pie tin and Derek took it eagerly. He thanked Stiles and dug in, complimenting how great everything tasted by eating in complete silence all the way to the bottom of the tin. Stiles gave him plenty of space as he listened to the kids playing, and the constant rattling song of the cicadas. 

“The Star Anise, does it work on humans the same way?” Derek asked, breaking the silence.

“Does it feel better?” Stiles asked. 

“Yeah, a lot better.” 

“It only works on werewolves that way. About all it does for us is make our stomach feel better if we have a bug, sometimes.” 

“How do you know how it works on werewolves? I thought you were going to burn the flowers you collected and use the ash.” 

“We did, some, the ash works on the surface, but it’s working on the deeper poisoning," Stiles explained. Derek nodded, waiting for more information, like before. "There’s a lot more in that sticky green crap than star anise, but that’s what smells like licorice."

"it's not bad," Derek shrugged.

"Be thankful Melissa didn't use it on your face where I got mud on you. The ash seems to have worked fine on your nose,” Stiles pointed out. Derek nodded and scratched at where it was probably itchy and still healing, but Stiles could see his impatience for the real answer playing across Derek's face. “My cousin, Scott, he’s a werewolf, that's how we know. He's a good guy, probably the best of us. You’ll meet him later. He lives right over there.” He pointed to a yellow house with bougainvillea creeping along the porch. 

“Are you human?” Derek asked. 

Stiles laughed because the question was inevitable, and always so hard to answer. “Entirely too much, or so I’m told.” Stiles smiled over at him, letting his heavy, backwater drawl turn the conversation more friendly than informative. “How long you been out here in the bayou then, Hoss?” 

“Not long, a couple months. I used to live in California, but my sisters and I moved down here after our family passed away,” Derek explained, sharing more than Stiles expected. “What does Hoss mean?” he asked. 

Stiles chuckled to himself. Derek was certainly new if he didn’t know the easy slang. “It’s a friendly term, like ‘buddy’ or ‘brother’, but it’s better like? More for big, badass, beastly dudes.” Bashful confusion made Derek’s smile uncomfortably as he listened to Stiles explanation. The tops of his ears turned red like he was embarrassed by the comparison. Derek obviously didn’t see himself that way. “You met many people out this way?” Stiles asked. 

“The Selures, and Scarlett Willow’s pack,” Derek answered.

“Well, that's unfortunate. They aren’t exactly the picture of civilized decency,” Stiles said.

“And you guys are?” Derek grinned, surprising Stiles by taking a jab at him like they were old friends. Stiles supposed they were something, and he liked the grin a lot more than the scowl. 

“We try, I can’t say niceties are the most important part of our lives, but we do have standards.” 

“What should I know about your family then?” Derek asked. He was smiling like he was amused, but he wanted a real answer, Stiles could tell by how interested Derek looked. 

“Don’t fight the hospitality, it’s not worth the effort," Stiles snickered. "There’s too many here willing to wear you down until you give in. Also, we don't hide the oddities like some do, as you already probably figure out from the kids. It’s a regular part of dinnertime conversation. So, expect to be asked, politely, but asked all the same. We’re willing to answer right back, as long as the aforementioned politeness is part of the equation.” Stiles thought for a moment about his family, and what they considered good manners. Not much stuck out except his grandmother, who had the patience of a saint, except when it came to questions about their lineage and obvious differences between them. “And don’t ask Gran if we’re really related, just because she’s black." Stiles shook his head, scowling to emphasise his point. "Oh, and don’t call her ma’am. Call her Gran, everyone calls her Gran.” 

“Okay, I can do that," Derek agreed. His eyes moved over Stiles curiously, lingering over his arms and hands. "So, are you related?” Derek smiled as he asked, finally looking at his face again. 

It took him a moment to realize he was supposed to answer and not just marvel at the brazen way Derek had just checked him out. Stiles raised an eyebrow, letting Derek know it wasn’t any more acceptable to ask him that question than it was his grandmother. Derek looked away abruptly, sighing quietly like he was exasperated with himself. 

“Don’t ask a bunch of questions about the shit you see and don’t understand though,” Stiles continued, overlooking Derek’s awkwardness. He had to save Scott from himself enough times it didn't bother Stiles much to glaze over stupidity just to smooth the conversation along. “There’s a difference between explaining what we are, and talking about what we can do. You might see a lot of strange stuff around here. It explains itself eventually, but only if you need to know.” Stiles emphasized the needing to know part. He was certain Derek would understand that. The Hales weren't big on sharing anything a person didn't absolutely need to know. Sometimes not even then if it wasn’t in Peter Hale’s best interest. “Also, there’s about twenty of us here, including the half a dozen kids. We eat dinner together in the parish house most nights. If that’s a little much to take right away I can take you upstairs and you can rest and eat there. I'll make the excuses,” Stiles offered. 

“Are you kidding? That sounds awesome.” The excited grin that engulfed Derek’s face made Stiles pause for a moment, unsure if he should share the next bit of information. Derek needed to hear it more than he needed a good mood though, if he intended to join them for dinner. 

There was no way Derek knew the history between their two families, and Stiles couldn’t let them all meet without at least giving Derek the highlights. 

“My aunt Melissa, she’s the one who fixed you up mostly, her son is my cousin Scott. He's the alpha werewolf here," Stiles explained. Derek nodded and rubbed at his face thoughtfully like he was trying to commit everything Stiles said to memory. "I'm guessing you don't know, but he was bitten by Peter a few years back?"

"No, Peter never talked about that," Derek said with wide eyes. 

"He wouldn't, it's a sore subject. He likes to pretend it never happened."

"How did he get to be alpha then?" Derek asked. 

"Well," Stiles sighed, ready to explain, but not liking it all the same. “Not only did Scott tell Peter to fuck off in no uncertain terms, he evolved into an alpha during the struggle for his freedom. I guess it's something your kind calls a true alpha, which sounds all ominous and important, but Scott is a good guy. Kind of nerd actually.” 

Stiles waited for Derek to process the information, to realize there were questions he should ask. 

“Peter, he--should I be here? I don't want to be here if I'm going to make anyone uncomfortable.” Derek skipped all the superfluous crap and asked the only question that really mattered. 

It meant something to Stiles that Derek was immediately concerned for other people, the right people, far more than he was concerned about himself. He continued to prove he was vastly different than any Hale they ever had the pleasure of spending time with. “You’re fine,” Stiles promised. “None of us really know the whole story except Scott and Peter. All we really know is Peter is weak now, and Scott has a pack of his own. Scott likes how his life turned out, but not a one of us hold any kindness for Peter. There might be a little trepidation about your presence, but I want you to ignore it and let me deal with it.” 

“How is Peter weak?” Derek asked. 

“Physically, he’s weak. He doesn't heal as fast. You never noticed that?” Stiles asked. 

“No, probably because he made sure I wouldn’t,” Derek answered, the scowl back in full force. 

“I fucking hate that guy,” Stiles sighed. Derek might be the one person who understood just how much he disliked Peter, even though Stiles didn't allow himself to feel it. If he let himself dwell on the feelings he might decide to do something about them, and that probably wouldn’t end well for anyone, for miles. Derek nodded, looking every bit like he understood perfectly. Stiles continued, “I am the only one here who can formally grant you sanctuary inside our parish, and that's exactly what I'm doing. Peter can't get to you here, or find you, even on his best day. We’re doing this--I’m doing this--partly because I’d like nothing better than to piss Peter off, and partly because I know you belong here.” 

“I belong here? What does that mean?” Derek asked. 

“Well, you were following me out by Hale territory, but you led me right back here without any help. That means you knew where this place was before, or you were drawn to it,” Stiles explained. Derek nodded, suddenly avoiding eye contact, intent on his hands. His guilt said he had been around before, and probably followed Stiles when he left that morning, which was balsy, but stupid. “For someone like you, there’s two ways into this place. The first is that long ass road out there--" Stiles pointed to the ugly dirt road that connected to the highway. "--where we can see you coming more than a mile off. The other is finding us from out in the wilds." Stiles looked at Derek for an answer, but he still looked guilty and tight lipped. "If this place wants you to find it, you end up here whether you ind to or not, and I don’t think you came down that road when no one was looking," Stiles pressed. 

“I found this place last night, coming back from the Selures,” Derek admitted. 

“You had to pass right by us to get there from Hale territory though.”

“I didn’t see you on my way there, only after I left the Selure's.” 

“Then something changed there," Stiles decided. "You had a sit down with Victoria Selure I assume?”

“Yeah, and I ran out of options.”

“That would do it.” Stiles leaned back in his chair, more confident in Derek's presence. Having proof always made him feel better about those sorts of things.

“I slept in the big oak at the end of the property last night, and I saw you at the pond with your beer,” Derek volunteered, an intent to confess surrounding his words.

“Was that the first thing you saw when you found this place?” Stiles asked.

“No, I saw you playing with Tommy, pretending to be werewolves I guess, now that I know you know what we are.” Derek kept a small smile to himself as he recalled. Stiles understood, Tommy was at an age that everything he did teetered on the brink of hilarity because he was so exuberant and cute, when he wasn’t screaming. “That’s the youngest one with the white, blonde hair?” Derek asked. “Actually, I heard him first. A long time before I saw him, but I didn’t think it was strange until just now,” he admitted.

Stiles nodded, liking Derek’s answer. “Tommy tends to find lost things. He was calling you here, and it says a lot that you found him first and not some too young old man, or a thousand year old nematon.” Stiles stretched out in his chair, feeling much better about Derek than he did before. He wasn’t here looking for power, or an army to take down Peter. What he wanted most was someplace safe. Tommy didn’t just find lost things, he more often than not took them back to their rightful home. Sometimes all by himself, much to Trudy’s dismay. “Something you don't know?" Stiles offered. "You wouldn't be able to touch that tree, let alone see it if you didn't belong here. It masks itself, and our parish. You would walk around it without even realizing, or you might walk right through and not see any of this--or us--at all. Being invited to sleep in the nematon? Well, that’s the kind of shit we just don't question.” 

Derek was silent for a while, but Stiles expect it. He had just laid a lot of information at Derek's feet. It was going to take him a while to sort out his priorities. “It’s really a thousand years old?” Derek asked, oddly more curious about the tree than his grand acceptance into their community. 

“Maybe older,” Stiles answered. 

“We had one, but someone cut it down. I didn’t know they were so...” Derek’s voice trailed off, like his thoughts distracted him from his words. 

The travesty of a nematon being cut down, and the weightlessness of Derek's words worried Stiles. Derek had no idea what a nematon meant, and there was no telling what kind of devastation Derek’s community had suffered when their nematon was destroyed. It was no wonder all he wanted was safety. Stiles couldn’t imagine being a creature like Derek and not having the security of a nematon. It was the cornerstone of their entire existence. It kept them protected, and separate from the outside world. It gave them space to flourish, and live freely on a planet that was overrun by people who no longer believed in things like werewolves and elemental magic. With a considerable amount of guilt, Stiles considered how little he paid attention to their nematon. He took the safety and love of the ancient, powerful entity for granted. 

“After dinner, we’ll go visit,” Stiles offered, more for himself than for Derek. “We call it Talequa." 

"You named the tree?" Derek asked. 

"Well, the tree names itself really. Talequa isn't even the original name, but it’s a good one," Stiles offered. Derek met him with the intense, curious look and Stiles set about giving a good explaination. "It’s a Cherokee word for a big, open field, because people didn’t live here years ago. We used this space for gatherings and celebrations. That is until the Cherokee and the African slaves with them were displaced on the Trail of Tears. Those that belonged were called here. There were so many being hunted and chased down they set up camp and stayed because it was the only safe place left. A few years later they build the parish house. The homes were built much later.” 

“Was there a church at one time?” Derek asked. 

Stiles smiled and shook his head, “The tree is the church.” A moment of clarity flashed across Derek’s face. He smiled and nodded, finally understanding. 

“Hey, Derek, I can show you something,” Becca called to them from the end of the porch. Her big, brown eyes and black hair poked out above the porch, under the railing. 

“How long have you been spying on us?” Stiles asked. 

“A long time.” Becca answered honestly, knowing he had no authority over her manners. She ran around the porch and skipped up the stairs, her long, skinny legs covered with dust from running in the road playing tag. "Open your hand?" Becca asked Derek. An acorn rolled across her open palm into Derek’s open hand. “Put it in your other hand,” she instructed. 

Derek switched hands, holding it in his open palm on his injured side. Becca sucked in her lower lip, concentrating on the acorn with narrow eyes. She rubbed her fingers together just like he did when he was talking himself into doing something that might have consequences for someone other than himself. Stiles had seen Becca do this a dozen times successfully, but he understood how she felt. No matter how many times you did it right, there was always the possibility it could go wrong. He trusted her, but he watched closely anyways.

Becca took a deep breath and particles that looked like dust drifted around the acorn. It took a moment for Derek to realize the acorn was disintegrating into a cloud of dust in his hand. Derek lifted it, watching intently as it faded into a wisp of reddish dust and settled in his palm. Becca put her hand under his and the red dust spread out and slowly vanished as it absorbed into his skin. 

“What the hell?” Derek said, turning his hand over. 

“Your skin feels better? On your face where the mud was?” Becca asked. 

Touching his face and mouth where Stiles had manhandled him with muddy, wolfsbane covered hands, Derek nodded. He rubbed at the side of his mouth where it probably itched. It was still healing but what Becca did would make it heal much faster than before. 

“It works for little things, that’s all,” Becca said like she was apologizing she couldn’t do more. “It’s the power of the nematon. You can separate it from the acorn if they’re new, and use it on some things. It doesn't work for much, but it likes to heal people.” 

“That was awesome, did you learn that from Stiles?” Derek asked. 

“No, he can't do that.” Becca was grinning because she could do something he couldn’t. She didn't realize yet that she was so far ahead of the curve already she would surpass them all in Stiles' lifetime, maybe even Gran's. 

“You can’t do that?” Derek asked him, raising his eyebrows. 

“Nope, not nearly awesome enough to do something like that,” Stiles shook his head, twisting his mouth in mock disappointment. “Go steal us a couple of your dad’s beers, huh? While everyone’s busy in the kitchen,” he whispered to Becca.

Becca smiled, then ran across the porch and down the stairs, heading to her house. It was a long standing game they played. Stiles would owe her something later, like candy bars, or letting her tag along when he made a trip to town. 

“Is everyone like you?” Derek asked. 

“No, only Becca, Trudy and Gran. Probably Tommy. Most of us are strange in some way though, like Jason, Tommy’s dad. He never loses at cards, but what’s that, you know? It’s just weird, not really useful if you don't want to be a criminal. With Scott here, the werewolves showed up, then a kitsune. Sometimes there’s a banshee. I like her, but she never stays long. We’re a pretty eclectic family.” 

"I've never seen a kitsune, or a banshee, only read about them," Derek admitted.

"They look just like you and me," Stiles assured him. "Well, in thier cases they're a lot prettier than either of us, but you know what I mean." Stiles grinned and Derek nodded, laughing softly at Stiles' way of speaking. A moment later Becca came back with their beers and ran off, going into the parish house to check on the cooks. Not long after that the dinner bell rang from the back porch. “Your family was big?” Stiles asked, curious if Derek had even half an idea what he was getting himself into. 

“There were ten of us,” Derek answered. 

“Well, that's enough to prepare you, but it gets pretty loud in there. Fair warning.” 

“I can handle it.” Derek smiled, his eyes were bright and excited. 

Derek’s voice changed when he grinned, just like the smile changed his face. Like something joyous and satisfying was waiting on the other side, if you were brave enough to dive in. His eyes crinkled along the edges, and all but disappeared. Stiles couldn’t help but smile back. He was happy enough most of the time, but Stiles didn’t understand where Derek got that kind of joy. Maybe losing the majority of your family was different than only losing a mother. Maybe it made Derek appreciate things more. Stiles took the empty pie tin from Derek and helped him to his feet, then followed him inside. 

Most everyone came in through the kitchen so they could wash up at the big sink before sitting down to eat. Stiles pointed Derek toward the bottom floor bathroom and went to the kitchen to drop off the pie tin, then he got roped into grabbing the large soup chafer because Gran told him to. In the front room, Becca made introductions for Derek as Melissa setup the tables. Trudy struggled to get an apron on Tommy, so Stiles offered to hold the wriggling three year old as his shaggy blond hair flopped around wildly. Tommy was flailing and laughing like keeping the apron off was a hilarious game. Once it was on though, Tommy smoothed it out over his chest with his chubby little hands like he was proud of his bright blue apron, and he wanted it to look nice. 

"Blue is pretty, huh Tommy?" Stiles asked. Tommy was too busy making strange noises and poking at his round stomach like he was mimicking TIE fighters and his belly was the Death Star to do anymore than gives Stiles a little nod. "Blue's my favorite too buddy," Stiles laughed.

"Yes!" Tommy shouted loudly. He squealed when Trudy made him sit down, but he folded his hands in front of him and started at Derek with big eyes once he was sitting. 

Stiles sat at the end of the table in between his grandmother and Derek, right across from Melissa. She kept Tommy busy for a moment while Trudy filled plates. Everyone passed their plates around for generous squares of cornbread, and ladlefuls of spicy red beans and sausage. Derek looked around the table like he was unsure of he should start eating. Everyone had been served, but no one else was eating yet. 

“Grace, then we eat,” Stiles answered the unasked question. 

His grandmother held up her hands, waiting for everyone to be quiet. He picked up Derek’s hand off the table and waited for his grandmother to take his and say grace. Derek’s thumb moved over his knuckles, trembling a little. His grip tightened and Stiles wondered if Derek wasn't comfortable saying grace, or holding hands. It didn't seem like something the Hale’s would do, but he wasn't trying to get away, just the opposite really. Becca was on Derek's other side, and Derek already knew her, so Stiles wasn't that worried. He stole a glance and found Derek’s eyes fixed on his knuckles, probably wondering where the long thin scar that ran between his fingers came from. Stiles wished it was a good story, but a moment of carelessness and heavy fishing line could do a lot of damage. His grandmother took his hand, bringing his attention back to the grace they were all waiting for. 

“For the grace of our family we give thee thanks, almighty God,” his grandmother said, taking his hand, then Melissa’s. “For the blessing you give us, so that we may give sanctuary to lost souls like Derek Hale, we give thee thanks. For all thy benefits and blessings Lord, we give thee thanks. May the Lord grant us peace and life everlasting, amen.” 

Red cheeks and ears were beginning to be a familiar look for Derek. He glanced over and found Becca smiling like she was about to laugh. He and Becca were both surprised Derek would embarrass so easy, just from being mentioned in grace, but Stiles understood. Derek’s family might have been big, but Stiles imagined they were probably just as wealthy as Peter Hale, if not more. They probably didn’t thank God, or anybody else, for the ability to help other people. They either didn't care, or they treated it as an obligation. When a person had too much thier whole life it was hard to understand why people would be thankful for having enough to share. He mouthed the words ‘be nice’ to Becca and she covered her mouth, giggling. A moment later she had forgotten all about it and was busy instructing Derek how to properly slather his cornbread in butter and honey before eating it. It was clear Derek was incredibly out of his element. 

The table went quiet as everyone dug in, even the kids were eating silently. Trucks pulled up outside, announcing the arrival of Scott and the rest of his cousins. They came in like a whirlwind of noise and news. Kira and Isaac both showed signs of bagging some large game. The smears of blood on Isaac’s shirt and Kira’s hairline had been half scrubbed away at least. It was the best they could ask for really. They all came by the table, saying hello to their grandmother and shaking Derek’s hand before sitting at the other long table nearby. 

“This is really great Mrs.--Gran, sorry. The food is really good.” Derek complimented Gran, calling her by the right name conscientiously. That alone was enough to seal his grandmother’s approval, but Stiles hadn’t been worried. She was, and always would be, a sucker for a pretty face. 

“What did you guys bag?” Stiles asked, turning in his chair to talk to Scott. 

“A gator and a four point white tail,” Scott smiled proudly. 

“Nice bro!” Stiles reached over and bumped Scott's fist, congratulating the win. 

“Where’d he come from?” Scott asked, his mouth full of cornbread, pointing at Derek. 

“Escaped from the Hale house, then pulled me out of a patch of wolfsbane like a badass when I nearly killed myself,” Stiles explained. 

“You’re leaving out the part where I accidentally drove you into it,” Derek corrected him. 

“Why’d you need pulled out?” Scott asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. 

“Well," Stiles sighed, surprised it took someone so long to ask, still not excited about telling how dumb he'd been. "That big patch of Northern Blue that Trudy spotted? It was a werewolf grave and I kinda stuck my hand in it.” Stiles wriggled his fingers and sneered at his own stupidity. 

“Doesn’t that paralyzation thing come and go for a while?” Scott asked. He was recalling some of his early education, more than he usually claimed to remember. 

“Eh, I think the wolfsbane might have knocked it out of me. I haven’t felt anything since.” 

“Good, but don't be alone for a while, just in case. I don't want to pull you out of the pond half dead again.” Scott scrunched his face in disgust. 

“I’ll be fine Mom.” Stiles mocked Scott’s concern, but Scott just shrugged and shook his head, expecting to be taken seriously no matter how much Stiles teased him.

Conversations revolved around the table in waves of intensity, talking about life, love, hunting, teaching the kids, everything about the inside and outside world. Derek got more than an earful on the subject of Peter Hale. Derek seemed to take it all in stride, only looking to him for salvation when his uncle Jason got a little too vehement about taking the fight to Peter's doorstep, before Peter stirred up more shit. Trudy shut Jason up quick by dropping Tommy in his lap. Any chance of conversation fell to pieces when Tommy was there, demanding your attention. 

“Grr!,” Tommy growled at Derek, holding his fingers like claws, his teeth bared viciously. “Grr!” he insisted again when Derek didn't respond the way he wanted. 

“Grr!” Derek held his hands up and grimaced, mimicking Tommy. 

“No!” Tommy shouted, standing on the chair between Jason’s legs. He stomped his foot in frustration. “Grr, like Scoot!” he demanded. 

Derek looked over at him, expecting translation. 

“He wants the Grr face!” Scott shouted playfully as he came around the end of the table and stalked up behind Tommy, grinning. 

Scott swept Tommy out of Jason’s lap and held him high, changing into the wolfish, terrifying face that Stiles would never get used to, but Tommy found utterly fascinating. Tommy squealed and kicked the air, screeching and pretending to be afraid as Scott playfully threatened him with the vicious wolf teeth and deep, rumbling growl. 

Tommy suddenly went stiff and slapped Scott’s face in protest. “No, him!” Tommy pointed to Derek, struggling to be let down. 

Scott laughed, surprised Tommy was so insistent. Derek watched the whole exchange like he was fascinated, or he thought they were all a little crazy. Scott set Tommy down on the chair next to Melissa, right across from Derek again. She laughed as Tommy insisted he show them his wolf face again, frustrated that Derek wasn’t complying immediately. Suddenly Tommy changed his mind and climbed down off the chair, running away, his fluffy blonde hair bouncing like a halo across the room. 

“I guess he lost interest?” Melissa said, shrugging as Tommy dove into the pile of kids playing on the floor. 

“Sorry, I’ve never done that for fun,” Derek turned to him, explaining and apologizing even though he didn't need to. 

“Is it a rule or something?” Scott asked. 

“No, I don't think so? I just never considered doing it if I didn't have to.” Derek’s confused half smile said a lot more than his words. He thought the whole thing was funny, but not what he was used to. Tommy charged into the empty chair, making a shocking amount of noise as he pulled it back and climbed into it. He adamantly refused Melissa’s help. When he finally suceeded in standing in the chair, Jason made him get down on his knees instead of teetering dangerously on his unsteady feet with a toy in his hands. When Tommy was face to face with Derek, as was obviously the goal the entire time, he pushed a toy fire truck across the table, all the way into Derek’s hands. Tommy let go reluctantly and sat back up, scowling at Derek the same way Derek scowled at things that weren't going the way he wanted them to. 

“This is pretty cool, do you want to play with this?” Derek asked Tommy, hopelessly lost. Derek obviously had no idea how to interact with tiny humans. 

“Dude, you’re being bribed. That’s his favorite toy, he doesn’t give it to anyone.” Scott came to Derek's rescue because that's what Scott did. 

Strumming his fingers on the table, Stiles wondered just how deep this fiasco was going to go. He had no intention whatsoever of stopping it because it was guaranteed to be hilarious, but he hoped Scott would intervene if Tommy got too out of hand. Scott was the one who started the whole ‘Grr’ face as a game to begin with. Stiles couldn't begin to imagine what Derek thought of it. 

A sigh slowly escaped Derek’s lips as he considered his options. At least he understood the gravity of being gifted the favorite toy. Tommy smiled and Derek grinned, it was more like cringe actually, but Tommy didn't know the difference. Derek put the fire truck down and pushed it back to Tommy, who deposited it on the chair next to him, returning it to protected territory. The toy was never offered as a gift, simply playing with it for a while was as big an offering as Tommy could imagine. 

“I’ll do it, but you have to give me your best Grr face at the same time. Your very best, scariest face, okay?” Derek asked. Tommy nodded gravely, preparing himself for maximum ferocity. “The count of three, then go, okay? One, two, three!” 

Tommy let out a vicious growl, pointing his version of scary fingers toward Derek with his arms fully extended. Stiles laughed at Tommy’s extraordinary effort, immediately and uncomfortably aware that he was the only one laughing. He glanced over at Derek because everyone else was staring at him. His thick forehead and giant teeth weren’t that different from Scott or Isaac, but his eyes were a bright, icy blue. Tommy squealed in delight, pointing to Derek’s eyes, shouting the word blue loudly, making sure everyone was paying attention. In a flash Derek was himself again, all traces of wolf wiped from his face in seconds. 

Melissa took Tommy’s hands, smiling wide even though she looked upset. "I know it's blue! We need to use our inside voice though." Tommy grabbed Melissa's face and turned her head toward Derek again, insistent she be as excited about the blue as he was. Melissa smiled at Derek apologetically and pulled Tommy into her lap. Scott, and everyone else nearby watched them closely, unasked questions forming behind their eyes.

Derek got up from the table and said something unintelligible as he walked toward the kitchen, avoiding the crowd of people between him and the front door. 

“Derek wait,” Stiles called out, but Derek was already gone, the kitchen door swinging behind him. 

Stiles raced after him, bursting through the door, expecting to have to pursue Derek through the dark woods--or at least across the parish--but he was standing on the back porch talking to someone. Stiles waited for a moment, then heard his dad’s voice drifting in from outside the door. 

“--There were quite a few of them out there at the Willow’s End. I met your sister Laura. I was dropping off enough crawfish to feed an army. It looked like it was going to be a pretty good time, I’m sorry you missed it,” his dad said. 

“Maybe we’ll go to the one next month,” Derek said. 

“Sure, sure, Scott and Kira have gone before, I’m sure they’ll take you if you want to go,” his dad suggested. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek nodded. He backed out of the way as his dad came through the door. 

“Hey kid, is dinner over? I didn’t miss pie did I?” his dad asked, checking the refrigerator. He pulled out a plate Melissa left for him with a big smile on his face. “I’m gonna go eat. It was nice to meet you Derek.” His dad waved and nodded to Derek before making his escape to the common room.

“Derek, don't go,” Stiles said as soon as his dad was gone, hoping Derek wasn't going to bolt. He didn’t move, but he didn't say anything either. “We all know what the color means, but no one thinks the worst. Everyone was surprised is all.” 

Derek’s jaw flexed, he nodded reluctantly. Stiles took a step toward the door, and Derek tensed, standing up straight. The world pitched unexpectedly and Stiles stumbled. He reached out for the counter, but his hand missed, tilting the kitchen in an unacceptable direction. All he could see was the bottom of the counter and his hands limp in front of him. Something was wrong, but his tongue wouldn’t move to call out for help. Suddenly a cold fist closed around his heart. His hands trembled, but he couldn't feel it, and his vision went cloudy. Paralyzing blackness engulfed him. Finally understanding what was wrong didn't make it any easier to handle. The dead man’s curse was lashing out at him viciously. Footsteps fell around him. He was thankful he could still hear, even if it wasn't very well, but he couldn’t feel anything and that was terrifying. The worst part of the curse was being seperate from your body. Stiles couldn't tell if he was upright, or on the floor still, but this time he was safe at home. 

The kitchen door swung open and he heard short, light footsteps like his grandmother. 

“Take him to Talequa, I’ll send Becca and Trudy,” his grandmother's calm voice was reassuring as she instructed someone, probably Derek. 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the rattle and hum of cicadas let Stiles know when they were close to the tree line. He wanted to put effort into staying conscious, but the paralyzation went so deep he couldn't hold on to a sense of time passing, or what was real and what was his imagination. Stiles drifted off again, but when he came back it was different. Reality felt sharper and he had more control over his mind. The sound of breathing was close to his ear.

“Please don’t die,” Derek whispered. 

The pain in Derek’s voice told Stiles he felt responsible somehow. Derek didn’t know the dead could hear, and he had no clue what was going on. Derek’s breath drew in sharply, then went shallow and ragged like he was crying. Listening to him struggle was impossible and unfair. Stiles held on to consciousness, hoping Trudy and Becca would come soon and help Derek. Someone at least had to tell him it wasn't permanent, and it certainly wasn;t going to kill Stiles. There weren't many spirits in the world that strong. 

“Oh, honey, he’ll be okay,” Trudy said a moment later. Her voice was far away, gaining in volume as she spoke. “I won’t lie to you, this sort of thing could kill a person easily, but not Stiles. This is only an inconvenience for him, you understand?” 

There was no response from Derek, and Stiles couldn't tell what was happening just from the sounds around him. There was a lot of moving in all directions and no instructions being given. Trudy should have known, she should have been talking to Stiles, telling him what was going on. Then there were warm hands on his chest. The sensation was immediate relief, knowing at least he wasn't alone and hallucinating all of it. 

“Why does he look like he’s dead?” Derek asked, his voice right against Stiles' ear. 

“It’s the punishment for stealing power from the dead. They make you suffer death until the debt is paid,” Trudy explained. 

“Taking power from anything that has a soul is theft, and theft is punishable by the suffering that lives in that soul. If you tried to steal from Gran, you might get all the pain she’s had from arthritis or childbirth, but if you took it from Scott, you’d probably die from all the pain of the injuries he’s had,” Becca explained. 

“Can you give life back to him? Would that make it stop?” Derek asked.

“Honey that won't help him," Trudy assured Derek. "He’s not in pain because the power was stolen from someone already dead. Their suffering is not having a body anymore. He can't feel anything. It’s much worse for us right now than it is for him. He’s probably in there wishing he could school you better than we are, if he could only talk.” His aunt Trudy explained things to Derek kindly, like the loving mother she was. 

“He can hear us?” Derek asked, his voice calmer, slower than before.

“The dead can hear. Sometimes they can see, but they can always hear,” Trudy said. 

“That patch of wolfsbane was over by your territory right? It was probably someone from your family. The Hales have been there for a long time.” Becca suggested helpfully. 

Never more thankful for Becca's quick mind, Stiles vowed to do something truly awe inspiring for her. She was smart, she had already figured out how to fix him. Stiles hoped the spirit he had offended was intelligent, and was invested enough to stick around after inflicting it's curse. All the evidence pointed there. It couldn't be a coincidence he was struck down so viciously when Derek was upset with him. And earlier, he was released from the curse more quickly than he expected, after he promised the spirit he would try to save Derek's life. 

“If it is someone from your family you can ask them to release Stiles," Trudy explained. "It can't hurt to ask. If it’s not someone from your family, they just won't hear you. But if they’re close by and they hear you, they might give their blessing and let him go.” 

“How do I do it?” Derek asked. 

“It's easy, but you have to focus," Trudy assured him.

"Repeat this: Those who love me, I ask for deliverance and blessing; protect those who know our name. When they call to us, we will answer them; we will rescue them, breaking them free from contaminating bondage,” Becca recited. “It sounds better in French.” 

“I can say that in French,” Derek said. “I’d rather say it in french if that's how it's supposed to be done?” 

“It doesn’t matter what language, they understand what you mean. What’s important is how you feel when you say it, and how respectful you are. You have to want them to release Stiles, and understand it’s their choice to let him go. All you can do is ask." Trudy explained. "Do whatever you’re most comfortable with,” she added. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/88276361910)

“Ceux qui m'aiment, je demande pour la délivrance et la bénédiction; protéger ceux qui connaissent notre nom. Quand ils nous appellent, nous allons répondre; nous allons les aider à se libérer de l'esclavage de contaminer.” Derek memorized and translated effortlessly, better than Stiles did, and half his family spoke French as a first language. 

Nothing happened for a long moment. Then a sensation like a twig snapping fired off in his chest and Stiles drew a slow, deep breath. He let it out, trying to speak, but all that came out was incoherent noise. 

“Did it work?” Derek asked. 

“I think it did,” Trudy said. 

Warm hands touched his face and neck as the numbness slowly drained from his limbs. His vision crept back from the edges in. Black spots persisted in his eyes, and he still couldn't move. As the sensation returned to his neck and chest he felt hands on his ribs, he wasn't leaning against the tree like he expected to be. The warm hands on his chest were Derek’s, the one on his neck was Becca. Derek was behind him, and Trudy was using Derek as a conduit. 

They didn’t need the mud and water to make their magic work like Stiles. They could both speak directly to the nematon, and that power was the spark of life. They filtered his energy into the nematon, and it’s energy back into him. He didn’t understand why Trudy was filtering her energy through Derek first, but his hands were where relief was coming from. It probably wouldn’t do him any good to ask. Trudy was never sure why she did anything. The less she seemed to think about it, the better things went. The process of exchanging energy was painstakingly slow, but he was thankful for it either way. 

Stiles raised his hand to cover Derek’s. They noticed he was awake and alert. Becca hugged his face and Trudy acknowledged him with a smile, intent on working.

“I feel better.” Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest, mentally preparing himself to get up as soon as he had the strength. He patted Becca’s hand, letting her know she could stop, he was okay, but she looked at Trudy for permission.

“Good, I’m glad,” Trudy said as she dropped her hands. “You scared the living shit out of Derek. Kind of an asshole thing to do to a new friend?” 

“Derek’s grandma bitch slapped me. It's her fault,” Stiles laughed, rolling his head over to make a face at Trudy. 

“Uh huh.” Trudy wasn't going to point out how he was the one who disturbed a grave. That wasn’t really funny.

“I want to get up.” Stiles tensed his arms to test the muscles. 

“You need to relax and let us help you,” Trudy warned him. 

“I feel a lot better,” Stiles insisted, pushing Becca’s hand away. 

“You are such an asshole sometimes,” Trudy said as she leaned over Derek to touch Stiles’ face with both hands. 

Stiles reached up, trying to pull her hands away and stop her when he realized what she intended to do, but he wasn’t fast enough. As he slumped over, cold, black unconsciousness invading his mind, he hoped he said the swear words lingering on his lips right before he passed out. He really fucking hated when she did that. A few hours later he pried open an eye, and looked around, expecting to see Trudy, or maybe Becca. He couldn’t see much because it was dark and he was still outside. There was no moon, no outside lights were on. The tiny bit of ambient light from the stars in the clear sky was all he had. It was late if everyone was asleep and all the lights were off. He pushed his arms against the tree trunk and lifted himself. He wobbled as he stood, but a hand caught his hip. Derek was sitting next to him, his glowing, blue eyes like fireflies blinking in the night. 

Silently, Derek climbed to his feet and stood next to Stiles, holding his arm until he regained full control of his equilibrium. “Thanks,” Stiles said. 

“Do you want to go back to your house?” Derek asked. 

“I want pie, we missed pie,” Stiles said, his stomach complaining loudly. 

“They left us pie in the fridge.” 

“Us? Do I have to share?” 

"Not if you don;t want to," Derek said fondly.

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Stiles wondered why he pushed himself so uselessly as he climbed the back stairs to the kitchen. Everyone else went to the nematon at least once a day to center themselves and recharge, but Stiles avoided it, like he used to avoid showers when he was a kid. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't something he wanted to do. Everyone else went in their own time, usually with someone. He suspected that was probably the real issue, but he wasn't willing to think about it enough to understand it let alone dismantle it. He used to go with his mother, then with Scott, but neither of them needed the nematon anymore, not like Stiles did. Going alone was like reluctant surrender, martyrdom, putting his loneliness on display for God and everyone to witness. The price he paid for avoiding the loneliness was too high to be rational, but he did it anyways. 

Resolving not to be an such an ass about it anymore, Stiles pulled two forks out of the clean dish rack and sat down with Derek. They dug into a strawberry pie, finishing it off far too quickly. He opened the refrigerator and took out the container of leftovers from dinner, and a bottle of hot sauce. 

“These are so good cold, you can douse it and not regret it,” Stiles said. 

Derek nodded, barely paying attention to him, or the food. “Can I ask you about what happened?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine," Stiles shrugged. "I’m sorry that freaked you out, and thank you for saving my ass, again.”

“You said that grave belonged to my grandmother, did you see her or feel her?” Derek asked, glossing over his fear like Stiles assumed he would. 

“No, not consciously, but sometimes--if I don't think about it too much--the things I just blurt out are true." Stiles took a big bite of the cold beans and sausage and added more hot sauce. "I know, that sounds weird," he continued, assuming Derek wanted to know because he wasn't asking another question. "Things for people like me work on two wavelengths; intellect, or intuition. I’m intuitive, though I like to pretend I’m intellectual. Trudy fucking owns being intuitive. She just shuts her brain off and starts working, she won't stop for anything.” 

Derek smiled, like he knew something Stiles didn’t, “I saw that earlier. I was impressed when she knocked your ass out and kept going. She was having none of your shit,” Derek laughed. “What do you call yourselves? You and Trudy and Becca,” Derek asked. “Peter called you witches, but the way he said it, I didn’t think it was very respectful.”

“Peter is an asshole,” Stiles said, stirring the pepper sauce into the beans and taking a bite. “We call ourselves family, the Monroes, and Catholic, though this parish house is the closest thing to a standing church I’ve ever set foot in. Names don’t mean much.” 

“Is that why you never told me yours?” Derek asked. 

Stiles thought about it, realizing he had never introduced himself, which was a very peculiar thing for him to overlook. No matter how much excitement there was. “I guess I must have assumed you already knew my name?” The truth slid out of Stiles' mouth effortlessly when he should have been drinking a little water to calm the burn from the hot sauce. He wasn't sure how Derek knew his name before, but he did. Derek held his hand out with a smile, like Stiles should shake it and introduce himself. “If I do that, I might find out things about you,” Stiles warned him. 

“Like what?” Derek said, lowering, but not dropping his hand. 

“Like how you feel, maybe about a lot of things. It always happens when we introduce ourselves, kind of like a defense mechanism? So we know who’s trouble. I don’t need to, Gran and Trudy already introduced themselves, you’re cool," Stiles offered. "They're a lot better at it than I am anyways." 

Derek kept his hand up, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Stiles dropped his fork in the container and rubbed his hand on the leg of his pants, trying to warm it up. Getting a direct line to Mr. Enigmatic didn’t sound like a terrible idea, but Stiles didn't need to shock him with his perpetually icy cold hands. 

“My hands are cold sometimes,” Stiles apologized quickly as Derek’s fingers slid over his palm. 

“I’m Derek Hale, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Stanislaw Stilinski, but people call me Stiles.” 

Stiles wasn’t looking for anything specific as he read Derek, but it wouldn’t have mattered, he offered no resistance. Guilt, love, anger, and sadness, all glued together by a persistent and unbreakable optimism. There was nothing remotely threatening about Derek. The icy blue energy he assumed was the cooled fire of the sin Derek carried from killing an innocent was nothing of the sort. Instead it felt familiar, like water. Everything about his soul was strange and beautiful, and nothing like Stiles expected. Werewolves, born and changed, were usually driven and competitive. All of them were aggressive, and some were cut throat, blood thirsty creatures that barely kept the wolf spirit from eating them alive. Derek was quiet and enduring. The wolf rested by a calm, glassy pool of anger, waiting patiently to be needed. It wasn’t waiting to attack though, it was waiting to control. The thing that held him together, like a complicated spiderweb stretching over his mind, was the desire to be needed, to protect and love. 

“No wonder you’re allowed to come and go as you please,” Stiles said, letting go of Derek’s hand. Derek flexed his fingers, waiting to hear what he had to say. “The color of your eyes doesn’t mean much when you have a clear conscience.” 

“I don't have a clear conscience,” Derek said without hesitation. 

“There’s a difference between feeling guilty for what you’ve done, and knowing you done wrong,” Stiles said. More words waited on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t let himself say them. He needed to go before his logic was hijacked by his desire to get to know a lot more about Derek Hale, intimately, in many different ways. “You should finish that, there’s a bed upstairs for you. To the right, at the end of the hall. The shower is next door, the amenities are in the closet. I’ll see you in the morning.” Stiles gave Derek the barest instructions, sure Gran would help him if he got lost. 

Excitement and chaos bubbled up in his chest. Stiles wanted to cry and giggle at the same time, but he tamped it all down. In it's place restless tension gathered in his gut, making Stiles feel a little sick as he walked across the road to his house. After making such a awkward, rushed exit, Derek would probably worry about what he had seen, but he would get over it. Especially when sticking around would have been a lot more complicated. Whatever Stiles felt, whatever he was about to blurt out was nothing more than the accidental byproduct of sharing so much with a person in such a short time. Instincts and magic be damned. 

It was all Stiles fault for avoiding the romantic part of his life for so long. His boredo and need was catching up to him. If one taxing day, and a gorgeous set of odd green eyes could make him question everything he assumed was true about his sexuality, he needed to get out more. Maybe meet people who weren't werewolves, hunters, or fishing buddies of his fathers. People like Lydia Martin. 

If Stiles was brutally honest with himself, he always had an absurd idea in the back of his mind that the universe would bring someone to him someday. Someone who wanted to live here, and raise a family. For a while he thought it was Lydia. She was the red haired banshee he found running from Hale territory, naked as a jaybird, and out of her mind with visions of death and destruction. He didn't like her at first, but she grew on him. She didn't want his life though, not even a little. Stiles loved it, a lot more than he loved her smart mouth and gorgeous smile. Living in the parish, seeing it thrive, was all he ever wanted. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/88321158810)

As Stiles climbed into bed, certain he wouldn't sleep for a long time, he counted and recounted the things he knew about Derek Hale. No matter how he added it up, it kept coming out biased. There wasn’t even one, single, solitary reason to not be interested in him. Except the irrational and arbitrary reason that the interest was unexpected, therefore uncomfortable. Sure, Stiles was all about flirting with anyone to get his way, and he was more than willing to get an eyeful of beautiful people, even beautiful men, but he was never interested in one. Not even remotely. Before Lydia though, Stiles could have said the same thing about ladies, and that was the part that confused his assumptions about himself. Lord, if he did not need to be just a little more introspective.... 

In the end, none of it matter anyways. There was no room for anything like that in Derek’s life, and there wouldn’t be for a long time. Derek needed friend and family, not more complications.


	3. Disagree With Gravity

After finishing off the leftovers Stiles left behind, Derek cleaned up the kitchen and went out the back door. A bed sounded nice, but he didn't want to feel like a guest in someone else’s house. He headed for the nematon, Talequa because he felt like it welcomed him into the world around him, so part of it belonged to him. He latched on to the heavy bark of the giant oak tree with his thick black claws, and climbed high into the sprawling tree top. He found the familiar nook between the twisting branches and fell back against the Spanish moss that covered everything. 

Up high he had a larger purpose, Derek was like a sentry protecting everything he could see. He was useful, even if it was self appointed and imaginary. Regardless, Derek scann the ground and the houses making sure everything was quiet and dark. The people were safe and sound in their beds. His basketball shoes swayed in the air, heavy like weights Derek couldn’t wait to get rid of. After pulling them off he tied the laces around a branch, wondering if it was okay to leave them there, or if it was somehow disrespectful. 

Scott was a strange, young alpha, but his existence, what he stood for, gave Derek hope. Peter could be dealt with. Derek wanted to prove himself, maybe stay like everyone assumed he would, but Scott and his pack complicated that. These people didn't need his strength or protection, and his attempt to be friends with Stiles had all but blown up in his face. Derek didn't have room for frivolous thoughts and wants, but events had made him stop and take a close look Stiles more than once. He was certain Stiles picked up on his thoughts and feelings when they shook hands, that was why he left in such a hurry. It didn’t matter though, Derek had bigger things to worry about, and someone like Derek didn’t mean anything to someone like Stiles. 

Unsure of what he was really worth to anyone, Derek was certain that Cora and Laura deserved better than Peter at least. They deserved more than Derek could give them, but he could work, he could build something better because they were worth it. He drifted to sleep thinking about his sisters, hoping they weren’t worried about him. A few hours later sunlight trickling through the branches woke him up. He watched the oak leaves flutter against the bright blue sky as he listened to the sound of the village below him. Yesterday was surreal, no more shocking than other transformative days in his life, but he still expected to wake up somewhere else. Somewhere with a lot less potential. 

“Hey, Derek!” Becca’s shrill voice called out to him from below. He twisted around, searching the ground. Becca and Bobby were both peering into the tree, looking for him. “Hey, there you are!” Becca said when she spotted him. “I told you he would answer if he was up there,” she whispered to Bobby. 

Bobby shouted up at him, “Tommy said you were in the tree! You coming down for breakfast? Trudy’s making pancakes!” 

“Yeah Derek, you coming down for breakfast?” Stiles voice called out from further away as Derek pulled his shoes off the branch and slung them over his shoulder. When he dropped to the ground in front of Bobby and Becca they both greeted him warmly. Becca gave him a hug, then turned and ran toward the parish house after her brother. 

“I think you got a fan club,” Stiles raised his eyebrow, smiling. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’m only a passing fad.” Derek wasn't willing to admit he was already deeply and dangerously attached to the two of them as well. 

“The kids adore you,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re still questioning whether or not you belong here, aren’t you?” Stiles asked. 

“I’m not--I don't know? How can I be sure if I haven't been here for that long?” Derek responded defensively, thrown off guard by Stiles’ leap in logic, no matter how correct it was. 

“What’s an appropriate timeline? You need someone to give you a sign? Permission? Maybe you’re looking for an explicit invitation? Oh, wait... ” Stiles said with deep sarcasm, gesturing to the nematon. 

Derek had already been given an explicit invitation, he understood that, but it didn’t necessarily mean he belonged, only that he was allowed. Stiles walked away, looking over his shoulder like he expected Derek to follow. Stiles was genuinely upset with him because he questioned his place, but Derek wasn’t sure why. Questioning seemed like the reasonable, intelligent thing to do. It was clear Stiles had perfect faith in something. Derek wasn't sure what it was, god, the earth, his family. Whatever it was, Stiles trusted it enough to wait for answers instead of digging them out. Derek wasn't sure he could function that way, no matter how much proof was laid out in front of him. Trust wasn’t one of his strengths. 

Nervousness built as he followed Stiles back to his house. John, Stiles’ dad, was already gone, and the house was quiet, and oddly clean. Derek imagined Stiles in the midst of eclectic clutter, but the decor was sparse and light. Stiles pointed him to the shower and handed him a towel, then left out the front door without saying anything else. Derek stood in the living room, looking around the small, well-loved house. The shirt he borrowed smelled like this house, like lavender, dust and peppers. Trepidation curled around his stomach, forcing him question what he should do next. 

No part of him believed anything was this easy, that a couple of nights sleeping in the right tree somehow gave him a free pass into Stiles’ family. But the stakes were so high, the risk of not believing outweighed the risk of accepting it at face value. That was the truth Derek refused to admit to himself last night. He didn't want the uninvited hope that wound it’s way through his mind like a snake, threatening to turn on Derek if he got too close. He had to work harder for what he had. Derek's life wasn't allowed to be comfortable and small, and it was never allowed to be easy. 

The towel in his hand reminded him he hadn't showered in a couple days. So far nothing had been easy, and maybe he was making the moment far more complicated than it had to be. Stiles was extending him hospitality, but he only accepted part of it. In the same position he would work harder to make Stiles feel comfortable. Only Derek grew up in a world where people cared more about observing rules and delivering on expectations than thier own comfort. They pretended everything was okay to make things easy, but he couldn;t pretend with Stiles. He tried and Stiles called him out on it so easily Derek felt stupid even trying. Derek had asked and Stiles explicitly spelled out the proprieties of this world to him, but they were speaking very different languages. Comfort and ease were expected, not optional. Derek was just being strange and rude in a foreign land. 

After his cultural epiphany, Derek went to the bathroom to take a much needed shower. He peeled the bandage off because he could tell he was healed, and tossed it in the garbage. A few minutes into his shower the door opened. His heart jumped and Derek put together an absurd string of thoughts before he had a chance to consider why he hadn’t locked the door in the first place. Annoyed and alarmed, Derek pulled back the curtain to see who was there. The bathroom was empty, but the clothes he hung on the back of the door were gone. A neatly folded stack of new ones sat on the counter on top of his towel. 

Whoever had come in worked fast enough to save him the awkwardness of conversation. At that moment in Derek's life it was the most hospitable thing he could hope for. He leaned back against the cold tile and tapped the water temperature down until it was almost freezing. Goosebumps traveled over his chest and arms until his body acclimated. The cold shower worked as the old idiom promised, erasing all the absurd thoughts about Stiles and his eyes, his hands, his long neck and pretty much everything else about him, and replaced them with a fixation on the cold that was slowly invading his skin. 

A dull ache spread over his injured arm. A mottled pinkness flared to life under the tiny drops of cold water that fell directly on his skin. where he had been burned. Curious, Derek lifted his arm closer to the stream and the pink darkened as the cold water hit the skin directly. He tipped the shower head down, slowly moving his arm under the cold water until the pink turned into a familiar handprint. Derek cranked up the cold and turned off the warm water completely. He told himself the bright red handprint staring back at him was nothing more than a scar that would eventually fade, but he had never seen a scar on a werewolf turn red under cold water. He finished up as fast as he could and got dressed, wanting to leave the bathroom and the water far behind him. 

Outside, Stiles walked across the front porch carrying a heavy fruit crate of odd supplies that tinkled like glass jars. Derek opened the front door to ask if he needed help and shockingly dark, red tattoos stared back at him from Stiles’ bare chest. They would around his arms and traveled down into his shorts in thick lines and patterns. Lines flowing like water twisted over his shoulders, and up his neck. He had seen Stiles without a shirt on, but he had never seen the tattoos before. Derek had stared at them long enough to be sure they really were tattoos and they certainly didn't look new. It was an absurd idea, Derek had only been in the shower for a few minutes. They were definitely old, and rough around the edges, like they weren’t done professionally. The color was saturated though, a more vivid red than he had ever seen before in a tattoo.

The expression on his face must have been alarming because Stiles put the box down and crossed his arms nervously over his chest. “Sorry,” Stiles said quietly, then shook his head. “Go get that bandage you had on.” Stiles pointed into the house, not asking. 

It took him a moment to realize Stiles meant the bandage he was wearing yesterday, the one he took off before he took a shower. The tattoos he couldn't stop staring at began to fade to a dull maroon shadow, but didn't disappear entirely. He wanted to ask how, or tell Stiles about the print on his arm because it looked the same and faded the same, but he was afraid of what it meant. Derek backed away, his eyes fixed on Stiles’ chest till the last moment, hoping the ghost of the tattoos would still be there when he got back, proving he hadn't imagined the whole thing. 

Recalling Stiles warning, Derek tried to put it all in perspective. He had seen strange things in his time, terrifying things, and tattoo were not terrifying. Derek assumed the strangeness he was warned about would be other people, creatures like the kitsune, Kira, that surprised Derek. Not Stiles, he was human. Derek expected him to be more predictable by default. It was an unrealistic expectation considering who he was. Derek needed to slow down and think, analyze unemotionally, so he could adapt quickly and not alienate anyone, especially not Stiles. It was clear Stiles was in charge of the parish, as much as it didn't make sense when there were older, more experienced people around, but they all deffered to Stiles. Silently, unquestioningly, every person Derek had met, even the alpha, looked to Stiles for guidance when they saw Derek's blue eyes. 

Moving a little too slow, Derek went back to the front porch with the ball of gauze he had thrown away, unsure why Stiles wanted it. As soon as he walked out the front door Stiles held out a beat up metal ash bucket for him to drop the gauze into. Derek deposited it, searching Stiles skin for traces of the tattoos he saw before, but nothing was there. When Stiles sat down on a fishing cooler next to the fruit crate full of oddities, Derek leaned in closer, his eyes glowing bright blue as he searched Stiles skin for traces of the tattoos. Just as he thought he saw a faint line over his shoulder, Stiles sat up with a thin paint brush in his hand and glanced over at Derek. He wasn't sure if Stiles caught him staring. If he did, Stiles didn't seem to care. 

“There’s a plate for you in the refrigerator. Come back and eat, we'll talk,” Stiles said, but again, he wasn't asking. It was a command he expected to be followed. 

Whatever Stiles was doing, he was focused. He spoke with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being listened to, like Derek’s mother. As strange as it seemed, it was clear Stiles was the one Derek had to talk to. He was the person who would decide how Derek would be allowed to deal with Peter, or if he was allowed to at all. The revelation was comforting in a way because Stiles disliked Peter for the right reasons, but Derek hadn't acted the way he might have if he had realized from the beginning Stiles was in charge. Counting up the ways he had potentially alienated and offended Stiles made Derek feel sick. The most humiliating part was probably how much Derek liked him. He only hoped Stiles couldn't pick up attraction the way he could. 

Nervous, Derek hovered over the plate of food in the refrigerator, eyeing a few cans of orange soda that looked abandoned. He wondered how he was going to make it through the next few minutes, let alone the next few days. He was confused and terrified of making the wrong choice, or saying the wrong thing. He needed to be nicer, more diplomatic and willing to listen. Derek had been good at that when his mother was in charge. He was so used to being defiant now the idea of catering to Stiles in any way made him stomach twist up with pure and unadulterated contempt. 

The scent of bones and dirt met Derek on the front porch. He sat down with his plate in an old wooden chair near Stiles. He was busy painting the inside of the ash bucket with a thin white paint. It only took Derek a moment to realize the paint was of the source of the smell. There was something familiar about the scent, like Derek had encountered it before, but he couldn’t place it. Stiles’ hands moved quickly and gracefully as he hunched over the bucket in his lap. His knuckles came away smudged with white as he twisted the bucket in his hands. Derek ate his breakfast in silence, watching quietly until Stiles sat up straight, cracking and popping his back loudly as he stretched. 

When Derek was done eating, Stiles pushed the bucket across the porch. Derek caught it just as it tipped against his foot. He left it sitting on the porch, inspecting from afar. The symbols and patterns were like Stiles’ tattoos. Long flowing lines connected in ways that looked like ferns floating on water. Twisted, square lines were probably symbols for houses and roads. Without translation Derek could still see the message, it was meant to protect somehow, but he wanted to know why it had to be done. 

“You gotta burn it,” Stiles said, not offering an explanation as he looked across the dirt road, toward Becca’s house. 

“Can you tell me why?” Derek asked. 

“What heals you can be used to hurt you." Stiles offered the simple version, then looked over at Derek to see if he was paying attention and ready to hear the real answer. Derek had learned if he wanted the good answer, all he had to do was wait. "If a person knows how to fully reverse the biochemical reactions, and amplify it, that could be used to kill you.” 

“That sounds more like science than magic,” Derek said. Science was something he understood. Suddenly he found himself much more interested in exactly how the beautiful, flowing symbols worked. 

“Magic is just science we haven’t explained yet,” Stiles shrugged, his easy answer resonating truth. 

Derek picked up the ash bucket and looked it over, wondering if figuring out the science was something they all did, or if it was just Stiles. Everyone always told Derek to leave mysterious, magical things alone, not analyze them. Even his mother believed if you looked too deep the magic might lose it's power, but Stiles obviously didn't agree. Derek was good with biology and math, but he was exceptional in chemistry. He had been headed toward early graduation, and he had plans to get a doctorate in medical science when the fire happened. He put all his plans aside for the last two years because there was nothing left to work for if his family was gone. Laura didn't care if he was a doctor, she only cared he was alive.

“This paint smells sort of like you.” Derek finally placed the scent. It wasn't quite right, but it was close. 

“My mother's ashes. Scott can smell that too, he says it freaks him out.” Stiles looked over his white smudged hands and rubbed his fingers over his knuckles. “It would be a lot better if it was your mom, but my mom has never let me down.” 

“It doesn’t freak me out.” Derek held the dingy, beat up ash bucket in his hands, wishing he could somehow keep it. It didn't seem right to burn it now that he knew what it was. 

“Incoming.” Stiles nodded to the road. Becca and Bobby were running toward them. “You remember being like that? Running everywhere because everything was exciting and awesome?” Stiles laughed. 

“It’s been a while.” Derek shrugged, not wanting to admit he had never really been like that, but Cora had been. He missed her. 

Bobby leapt onto the porch and shoved a linen bag into Derek’s hands, then ran into the house without slowing down. Becca gave an envelope to Stiles, then followed Bobby. He flipped it open quickly and handed it over. 

“Be careful with this,” Stiles said. “It’s the wolfsbane from yesterday. That bag is full of straw and chicken feathers. You don't need to open it, just slip the wolfsbane in the top," Stiles instructed. He turned toward the door, "Becca, we’re going to the pond,” he called into the house. 

Both of the kids came out of the house with blue mouths and raspberry otter pops. Bobby presented him with a green one, but Derek shook his head, thanking him for the offer. Stiles took an orange one from Becca and tore it open with his teeth, like he still ate them often. They walked out to the pond and sat down around the bucket as Stiles instructed. It took Derek a moment to get the whole bag of straw to fit neatly into the bucket. Stiles handed him a book of matches to light it. Derek raised his eyebrow as he read the front then turned it over, cringing at the lurid art on the back. It was from someplace called the Velvet Clam, a Gentleman’s Club.

“You’re judging?” Stiles laughed. 

“I’ve never been to a place like this.” Derek was glad he had never been brave enough if the lewd drawing was any indication of what the employees looked like. 

“I’ll take you sometime, unless that's not your speed?" Stiles kicked his feet out, stretching them toward the edge of the pond. 

“Not even close, I--” 

“Just light it up.” Stiles laughed, interrupting Derek before he could share his opinion. 

Obviously it wasn't anymore dangerous than a regular fire, or the kids wouldn't be there watching like it was the next best thing to daytime television. Derek wondered what life was like for them. He had never been allowed to directly take part in anything magical. Werewolves usually couldn’t be a part of anything magic because they couldn't control it. The energy went wild and just fell apart. Part of him was worried he might keep it from working, but Stiles seemed confident in Derek's presence, and that was enough. 

The sulfuric scent of the match burned his nose as the flames crawled down the long stick of black paper. He dropped it into the open end of the flour bag. Thin tendrils of swirling smoke looked like the match going out, but a moment later blue smoke curled out of the top of the bag and orange flames burst free. 

“There’s no science behind it, but I always give a little thanks for all the things that built it before the fire goes out,” Stiles suggested. 

“You don’t have to do it out loud though. I hate saying that kinda stuff out loud,” Becca commiserated. 

Giving thanks for all the parts and pieces that were involved in this strange offering seemed like an impossible task. Derek didn't know most of the people involved, or what the contributions even were besides what he had witnessed. Sacrifice was the only resolute way to give back to those who sacrificed for you. Following his instincts, Derek reached out and ran his fingers over the outside of the bucket, burning his fingertips. The pain crawled up his arm, making his hand weak. He closed his hand so the kids wouldn't see and folded it in his lap. 

“Be careful, that’ll burn you,” Becca warned him, not realizing she spoke too late. 

“Hooligans, go steal a couple of those red label beers out of your dad’s fridge for us?” Stiles said, sitting up and grinning conspiratorially. 

“What’ll you give us?” Bobby spoke up finally, revealing himself as the negotiator. 

“Um, Creamsicles and otter pops next time we got to the store?” Stiles offered. 

“And a hersheys bar, for each of us,” Bobby narrowed his eyes, testing his limits. 

“One to share,” Stiles countered. 

“Deal!” Becca shouted, grabbing Bobby by the hand as he protested her intervention. She pulled him to his feet and walked with him up to the house. They argued quietly most of the way.

“Is that how your people give thanks?” Stiles asked, holding out his fingers out and nodding toward Derek’s hand. 

Derek flexed open his hand. The tips of his fingers were still pink, but they had healed. “It felt like the thing to do,” he answered. 

The fire swirled and popped as it struggled to finish off the last of the dense gauze. Stiles picked up twigs and leaves within arms’ reach and threw them into the bucket. Derek followed his example, building the fire up to make sure everything burned through. 

“Sometimes we do things because it’s the only way we know, but it doesn’t mean it’s the best way.” Stiles crossed his long legs, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed at the white paint still speckling his knuckles. “A lot of people put something toward what healed you. Melissa obviously, but Gran, Trudy, and Bobby all had part in it. None of those people want you to suffer, and none of them would feel thanked by what you offered.” 

“No, they probably wouldn’t.” Derek agreed easily as he flexed his fingers absently. What he chose to do was easy, but he was unsure what would have been right. He was pretty good at figuring things out, but he had no experience with magic, and no context to understand what was expected from him. He wanted to ask what Stiles wanted, if anything, but he wasn't sure where to start.

“Do you need me to spell it out?” Stiles asked. 

“Probably,” Derek admitted. 

Stiles watched him thoughtfully for a moment, like he was sorting out how to dismantle Derek and put him back together. It was strangely disarming, but flattering that Stiles would care as much. “You shouldn’t cause yourself unnecessary pain. Life hands a person enough shit all on it’s own. You have the power to choose to take care of yourself and be strong when the real pain comes knocking. You start making your own misery and you risk throwing everything off balance. The good things we do for ourselves to counter the bad can’t keep up, and nothing works right anymore,” Stiles explained. 

“That sounds good, but sometimes there's no way to be balanced again, so it doesn't make a difference. “ Derek countered Stiles theory, sharing his views uncharacteristically. 

Considering what Derek said thoughtfully, Stiles nodded and stared off at the pond. He doled out wisdom far beyond his years with the blasé attitude of someone too young to understand the impact his words had. Usually Derek would listen, take it in and keep his opinion to himself, but now it was different. He wasn’t disconnected anymore, hoping for something better, waiting for permission to start his life. It started the second he left Peter's house. "It just took this long for Derek to realize it. Stiles wanted to be his friend. If Derek intended to live up to it he couldn’t wait to make his choices, or keep his opinions to himself anymore. 

“There were people in the world who believed you were special, weren't there?” Stiles asked. 

“At one time, yes,” Derek answered, uncomfortable that Stiles so would tread so close to the memory of his family. 

“Just because they aren’t in this world anymore, doesn't mean they don't exist.” Stiles held his hands out, like gesturing might make the sentiment more true. Without any warning or explanation, the white paint faded off Stiles' skin as the bright red tattoos blazed across it, like the tattoos refused to share space with anything else. Stiles reached out and tested the lip of the bucket with his fingertips cautiously. What was left of the white paint inside crumbled and fell away, drifting into the air like dust. 

“It worked,” Stiles said. “It can’t hurt you anymore.” Stiles gestured to it like it was Derek's, and he was allowed to touch it again.

Lifting the still too-warm ash bucket closer to his face, Derek carefully inspected the contents. There was no lingering scent of wolfsbane or licorice, like there should have been. Instead it was the same dry, dirt and bones scent of Stiles’ mother’s ashes. “How?” Derek asked, hoping Stiles could explain it.

“You know, most people don't have that keen sense of smell. They have to take it on faith,” Stiles pointed out. Derek did have faith, maybe too much of it. He waited patiently for whatever answer Stiles would give him. Stiles smiled, maybe amused by Derek’s tenacity. “You asked the spirit in the wolfsbane grave to release me, and it complied. I asked my mother the same sort of thing, and she took away all traces of you in those bandages. To make it work she had to replace everything that was you with what was left of herself. She’s ash and dust, and can’t be hurt like can anymore.” 

Understanding, but still unsure why it had to be done, Derek wrapped his arms around what was left of Stiles' mom and wished he knew better how to thank her. “Why couldn’t I just burn it and be done?” Derek asked, unsure why she had to be called on and disturbed for his sake. 

“Just because something is ash, doesn’t mean it’s destroyed. My mother is ashes, and she’s still connected."” Stiles paused and narrowed his eyes at Derek like he was considering how to explain the rest. “You have to open a door for spirits to be able to affect our world. Good and bad spirits need certain kinds of doors. It had to be consecrated for her to be able to transform it, like the body and blood of christ.” 

“That’s real?” Derek asked, surprised. He assumed that tradition was mostly symbolic. 

“Yeah, if you do it right.” 

“Why would she do that for me?” Derek asked. He understood well enough it wasn’t about beautiful symbols, traditions and science alone. There was more to it, like being a werewolf. Motivations and willpower were the most important parts. But that left him with more questions than answers. If spirits still had willpower and motivation, why was Derek alone?

Sadness and defeat hung heavy on Stiles suddenly as he answered Derek's question. “Because she’s one of those people who believes I’m special." Stiles gave Derek a weak smile, but his grief didn't let it be real. "She’s dead, but she still does everything she can for me. Sometimes just because I ask.” 

The way Stiles spoke reminded him of Laura, how worn out with grief and sadness she was after keeping everything afloat and mourning at the same time. She was a shell of herself when she finally relented and accepted Peter’s promise of an easier life. Derek was angry when he left, and he had taken it out on Laura. He would regret the things he said to Laura forever. He had no right to expect so much from her, they had all lost the same thing and it was never going to get any easier. 

After spending so much time coming to terms with what they lost, accepting Stiles’ explanation seemed impossible, but denying any part of it was unthinkable. Understanding what Stiles’ mother had done for him, being able to observe the proof, opened a door in his mind. A door his whole family came walking through all at once. Grieving them, mourning their loss was one thing. Knowing they might still be right there with him, reaching out in whatever way they could, and Derek just couldn't see or understand, was something just couldn't accept. Nothing about it seemed fair or remotely reasonable, but there was too much logic and proof to the contrary. Thinking about it made him uncomfortable in his own skin. His heart hammered in his chest and blood rushed to his head, making his face hot. 

“C’mon, up on your feet.” Stiles pulled at his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. He hooked a hand under Derek’s arm and helped him up. Vertigo made his head swim, he reached out and held on to Stiles shoulder, feeling uneasy. “Whoa," Stiles grinned as he helped Derek steady himself. "That’s just a side effect of breaking your connection to all the good stuff that helped you get better. You heal fast on your own though, it’ll pass," Stiles assured him. 

Immediately Derek's mind went to the red handprint on his arm. It wasn’t completely healed yet, but like Stiles said, it would eventually. Stiles held him steady as the world slowly stopped spinning. A familiar feeling of nausea ached in his stomach. The wolfsbane hadn’t worked it’s way out completely, but the lingering effects weren’t unbearable. He took a deep breath and willed it to pass.

“You good?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded, reluctantly letting go of Stiles to stand on his own. “All of it goes into the pond, then we’re done,” Stiles instructed, motioning for him to pick up the bucket off the ground where he'd left it. 

The vertigo was gone but something else lingered in his head like an ache, or a bad memory. When Derek emptied the bucket close to the water's surface, some of the ashes drifted into the wind, but most scattered over the the pond and vanished into the murky green water. He knocked the side to kick loose what was left, but small clumps of ash stuck in the corners. Wanting to finish it completely, Derek brushed what was left loose with his fingers then shook the last of the ashes free. 

Satisfied he was finally done, Derek stood up too quickly. He pitched forward, his equilibrium disagreeing with gravity. Falling into the pond and disturbing all Stiles' hard work was the last thing Derek wanted to do. He reached out for Stiles and grabbed his shoulder. For some reason Stiles didn’t steady him in return like Derek expected. Cold spread under Derek's fingers and Stiles flinched, grabbing at Derek’s wrist as he pulled his hand away. Ashes were smeared across Stiles' skin, breaking up the red of his tattoos. Stiles brushed the ash away quickly, as if it hurt. Underneath, the tattoo had vanished where Derek's hand had been. 

“What did I do?” Derek eyes fixed on the ruined tattoo. "What happened?"

“It’s okay,” Stiles assured him. He shook his head at Derek's concern and pointed at the water. “Clean the rest out in the water. Don’t touch anything else until your hands are clean though.” Stiles spoke with calm authority, like he was sure everything was okay.

It didn't stop Derek from feeling like something had happened, like maybe he had undone the whole thing somehow and Stiles was being punished for letting a werewolf be part of family secrets. After Derek rinsed the bucket out in the pond they walked up to the parish house together, Stiles keeping an obvious distance, to finish cleaning up in the big sink. When Stiles was done washing up he sat at the kitchen table. Derek looked back over his shoulder as he scrubbed out the bucket, but Stiles was silent, deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t react when his grandmother came in. She paused in the doorway, getting a good look at Stiles, then joined Derek at the sink. She stood close to him like she might whisper something, or ask Derek a question. She wasn't looking at Derek though. Her eyes were fixed Stiles as she opened a cupboard near Derek's head and pulled out what looked like a white pillow case. 

“Is this clean,” Gran asked, picking up the ash bucket before he answered. Derek nodded, hoping he had done a good enough job. “Open this, it goes inside,” she instructed, handing him the pillow case. 

As her eyes narrowed and concentrated on Stiles, Derek could see the distinct resemblance between Stiles and his grandmother. They had the same sharp cheekbones and golden brown eyes. She took the case from Derek when he was done packing the bucket away and put it in a lower cupboard, then went to the refrigerator. The red label bottles Becca should have brought them were waiting there. Gran handed one to him, then walked the other over to Stiles and dropped it on the table. Stiles jumped at the noise, finally aware of her presence. 

“Becca left these for you, I sent them out for more laceflower,” Gran said. 

“Sweet," Stiles grinned as he picked up his beer. "I thought the mission was a bust.” Stiles smiled and talked as if nothing was wrong. 

“This is new.” Stiles’ grandmother touched the broken lines over his shoulder, pushing at his skin to get a better look. 

“It’s nothing,” Stiles shook his head. 

“Literally, that’s the disconcerting part,” Gran pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Stiles assured her, his expression flat and unaffected. 

“You seem to be.” Her tone softened as she reached out and ran a hand over his shoulder. Stiles smiled like he was relieved she was letting it go and took a drink of his beer. His grandmother walked to the pantry door and disappeared inside. Her voice came from behind the open door. “When you’re finished will you boys go pick some blackberries?” she asked. 

“Sure Gran,” Stiles agreed easily, leaning against the wall behind him. His long legs sprawled out in front of him lazily. He was the picture of quiet confidence, but Derek could tell Stiles probably didn't know what had happened to his tattoo, and it was bothering him. 

“Derek, come get these down for me,” Gran called to him. 

Inside the pantry, everything looked like it belonged in a different time. The kitchen had old appliances, and new, but everything inside the pantry was stored in old glass mason jars with rubber seals and wire lids. All the wood was untreated, but shiny and worn at the edges from hundreds of hands moving things over the shelves. Gran pointed to a heavy container of vegetable fat, then flour, sugar and cocoa. Once his arms were piled high went back out to the kitchen and set everything down on the counter like she instructed. Finding bowls and a sifter, Gran went to work. Derek watched her move around the kitchen like she could do it blind and wished he had something useful to do, like bake, just to avoid having to watching Stiles worry. 

“Honestly sweetheart," Gran said, breaking the silence that had fallen on the room. "I hadn’t seen that color in so long I thought maybe I just forgot what they looked like.” Gran was referring to the tattoos. Stiles glanced up, but didn't respond. “They look good on you," she smiled. 

“I like them,” Derek volunteered when Stiles still didn't respond. 

“Derek likes them, they must be cool.” Stiles nodded, then gave him a half smile, assuring Derek he was only teasing. 

“Everybody likes them honey, but we didn’t think you did,” she said softly. Her words made it sound like they weren’t something Stiles had chosen to do to himself. 

“They looked better on mom.” Stiles crossed an arm in front of his chest protectively as he set his beer down. “We should go Derek. I want to meet Dad later and help pull up the cages.” Stiles got up and pulled down a large soup pot from the shelf above the stove, then headed toward the back door. 

“I’ll send Trudy down later with some lemonade,” Gran said. 

“You coming?” Stiles said to Derek impatiently. 

EVen though Gran had asked them both to go, Derek had been waiting for some kind of invitation from Stiles. It surprised him Stiles wanted to keep spending time with him. It occurred to him as they were walking past the pond that Stiles could be staying close to keep an eye on Derek. If he was, he wasn’t doing a very good job. Stiles was obviously distracted and clumsy because of it. He scowled and bit at his thumb nail as he walked, and he kept banging the soup pot loudly on trees a they passed. Derek finally stopped and grabbed the pot. Stiles stared at him blankly for a moment, not letting it go. 

“Sorry. I know, the ears.” Stiles sounded exasperated with himself as he let the pot slip out of his hand and gestured to his own ear like Derek was taking it from him to avoid the noise. Really, it was the reminder that Stiles was upset that was bothering Derek. 

They walked next to each other for a while, much slower than they started out. It gave Derek a moment to actually look around, take in the surroundings. They were walking a faint path people and animals both had traveled many times. 

“No shoes?” Stiles asked abruptly. 

“You don’t wear them,” Derek answered. 

“I have good reasons, you don’t. There’s a lot of shit out here that can hurt you.” Stiles sounded mildly annoyed. 

“Hurt me?" Derek laughed. 

"Laugh, yeah," Stiles scowled. "I know you aren't invincible, and with those eyes you especially don't heal as fast.” Stiles proved he knew a lot more about what Derek was, than Derek knew about what Stiles was. 

"Would you be less worried if I looked like this?" Derek let the wolf take over his face. It slid easily to the surface. Setting himself free was risky in the wrong company, but Stiles was safe. He was also curious and needed a distraction. 

"I thought you didn't break all that out unless you had to," Stiles grinned, stealing glances as they walked along. 

"Same for you." Derek pointed to the tattoos, the thick, predatorial teeth slurring his words slightly. 

"Fuck, I haven't been down here in a while." Stiles ignored Derek's observation in favor of taking in the chaos of the wild woods around them. 

The path opened into a clearing left behind by fallen trees. Blackberries and kudzu covered every inch of open space, both trying desperately to choke the other out. The kudzu was currently winning by a small margin. Stepping carefully through the vines creeping across the ground, Stiles stopped and look back at Derek like he expected Derek to join him. Stiles was standing in mud that curled around the edges of his feet and hid his toes. Derek refused to shy away because of a little dirt. His feet sunk into the thick mud next to Stiles and waited to see what happened. It was becoming clear that water was the commonality in what Stiles could and couldn't do. That was his element, so it made sense mud was his best friend out in the middle of a shallow river that stretched out so far there was no telling where the end really was. 

Digging his toes in further, Stiles wrapped a thick, bright green kudzu vine around his hand and closed his fist around it. The temperature dropped all around Stiles, like he was the source of the cold, not the magic he was about to use. Derek's sharpened senses picked up the cold that emanated from Stiles in vaporous, dark ripples, like the heat shimmer on a hot desert road. Bright blue tendrils of energy flowed over his skin from the ground, up his legs and across his chest as it traveled down his arm and into the kudzu. By chance, Derek had never seen Stiles use his power with fully transformed wolf eyes. The closest thing to the awe inspiring, elemental power Derek had ever witnessed was the rippling pink aura around a banshee Derek had seen one time, when she was screaming. 

Vines all around him stiffened and crackled like popping styrofoam, the air all around them went cold as the kudzu leaves wilted at the edges. Drops of water fell on Derek's arms and shoulders, and the sound of rain echoed through the clearing. Vines shrank back, wilting and withering away in a circle, starting at Stiles' and spreading out. The sound of falling rain moved further and further away as the circle grew past the clearing and went deep into the forest. Dry leaves began to fall, drifting and swirling in the still air. The last bits of vine curled into stiff, dry husks and the remnants of the leaves swirled through the air like dust, and stuck to his wet skin. Most amazingly the blackberries were untouched, thriving and green. Long, clear, winding paths cut through the brambles where the kudzu had been. What was left of the kudzu continued to crumble and fall to dust after Stiles let go. Snapping and breaking sounds going off like quiet firecrackers all around them. 

“It looks burnt,” Derek said as he rubbed a bit of dessicated grey leaf between his fingers. 

“All the water is gone,” Stiles grinned, then turned back toward him. “You gonna stay a wolf all day?” he asked curious and amused. 

“Maybe,” Derek answered. That's when he noticed the red lines across Stiles shoulder were solid again, like nothing had happened. “That didn’t last long,” he said, gesturing at the marks so Stiles would notice. 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, his hand clapping over the spot on his shoulder. 

“Your tattoos are solid again.” 

“They look whole to you?” Stiles asked, pulling the skin tight like it might help him see better.

The wolf backed away and Derek's human eyes saw the tattoos the way they looked before, broken. Testing himself, Derek lit his eyes up and the tattoos were perfect and unbroken again. “I swear, they look fine,” Derek promised. 

“Only when your eyes are like that though?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded, wanting to apologize even though he still didn't understand what had happened. “ I guess that means they’re still around, just being temperamental.” Stiles spoke with restrained relief as he inspected his skin.

“You were worried they were broken?” Derek understood they were connected somehow to Stiles' abilities. It also explained the awesome display of power Derek had just witnessed. “Is that why you just destroyed half the kudzu in Louisiana?” 

“Maybe,” Stiles sighed. Derek raised his eyebrows, expecting a better response from someone like Stiles. “Okay." Stiles held up a hand like he was asking for mercy. "I was worried maybe I did something wrong, or asked my mother for too much. Obviously it’s something else. I have no fucking clue what though.” Stiles was upset and frustrated he didn't know because he was probably used to knowing everything. If he didn't really know, it seemed to just come to him in time, if he let it. 

“You said they looked better on her, what did that mean then?” Derek asked. There was a puzzle to solve, if Derek could gather all the pieces. 

Stiles eyed him warily for a moment, then looked out at the destroyed kudzu like all of the triumph of winning was gone. “In my family you don’t inherit a fortune, you inherit these.” Stiles held up his arms then crossed them over his chest and inspected the vast destruction he had caused. “I probably shouldn’t have done all that.” 

“Kudzu doesn’t belong here.” Derek said absently, preoccupied by the tattoos, and what connection it could have to the mark on his arm. 

“Neither do we,” Stiles said as he walked out into the clearing along a wide path the kudzu had left behind. Steam began to rise off the hot ground as the sun baked away all the moisture the kudzu had been protecting. Stiles walked deep into the patch of blackberries and threw the pot up in a bush, letting the heavy blackberry vines hold it for them. They worked silently for a long time, filling the pot half full before it got too heavy to sit in the vines anymore. Derek set it on the ground and Stiles sat down next to it. “We’ll be done soon, take a break,” Stiles offered, reaching into the pot to steal a handful of berries. 

Their hands and arms were already stained purple. Eating the berries raw would only make their mouths purple too. Derek had refrained from eating any even though they smelled good to make the work go quicker, but maybe fast didn't matter as much as good did anymore. Ready for a break, Derek sat down and took a handful of berries. Stiles smiled, like he was pleased with himself for being contagiously lazy. “Do you you guys have anyplace to swim around here?” Derek asked because the sweat, dirt, and dead leaves made him hopeful there was a swimming hole nearby. 

“Blue Bayou, it’s a couple miles west of here, past the Selure property," Stiles said. "Scott and Isaac go with me all the time, but it's not a good idea for anyone who isn't a predator." 

"You're not a predator," Derek laughed. 

Stiles scowled, pretending to be angry for a moment, then smiled when Derek laughed at him again. "No, I'm not," he agreed. "But water can't hurt me, and neither can anything that calls it home." 

"You know, I've seen what you can really do." Derek gestured to the clear spaces around them. "It doesn't make any sense why you ran from me?" 

"Why did you chase me?" Stiles asked, turning it on Derek. 

Derek faltered, unwilling to admit how beautiful he thought Stiles was, and how he followed him impulsively. "Curiosity," Derek muttered. Stiles grinned like he knew there was more to it. "And the thrill of it, I suppose," he added cautiously. 

"Fair enough," Stiles shrugged. "I ran because what I can do doesn't work on werewolves. Your body might be made of water like any old human, but the shapeshifter in you is made of pure fire spirit. It protects you from the other elements. That’s why most things can't hurt you. Except stuff like wolfsbane, which also has a little fire spirit." 

It made sense to Derek, but something else immediately came to mind, "why do you live in the middle of werewolf country then?" he asked. 

"We were here first," Stiles scoffed.

"I beg to differ young man," Peter's drawling, sticky sweet voice called out from the other side of the clearing. Heavy footsteps shook the ground ominously. Derek wasn't sure how much Peter had over heard, and when he realized he was about to be face to face with his uncle, fear and worst case scenarios started running around in Derek's head as he scrambled to his feet. "We were here long before humans were," Peter continued as he finally stepped into view. "If you dig deep enough into the history books you'll find a lot of things were here before humans," Peter sneered and turned his attention toward Derek. "Nephew, it’s so good to see you. Laura couldn't find you, but she insisted you weren’t dead. And look, here you are." 

Determined to at least allow Stiles to walk away, Derek put himself directly between Peter and Stiles. Peter raised an eyebrow and smiled ruefully like he thought Derek's protective display was a joke. As anger seared Derek's veins, gathering strength and begging to break the wolf free and attack, Derek realized Peter was smaller, and much less intimidating than he remembered. 

“Honestly Derek, you can do better, don't you think?” Peter smiled and gestured to Stiles, peeking over Derek’s shoulder in an attempt to provoke him with childish insults. 

Derek was frozen, not wanting to speak because he was afraid what he might say, or what might happen. He wanted to kill Peter, take his chance and rip his throat out, but doing that had consequences far beyond immediate satisfaction. The last thing Derek wanted to do was inherit Peter's power, especially if it was corrupt and weak like Stiles had suggested. 

"What do you want Peter?" Stiles asked calmly. Much to Stiles' credit he remained in place, protected by Derek. 

“This is touching, really, but it’s time to come home Derek,” Peter commanded, ignoring Stiles. 

“Your house isn’t my home,” Derek stated. 

“That hurts me,” Peter said, taking a step to the left to get a better view of Stiles. “It’s amusing at least, that you think you have a choice in the matter.” 

“He’s not going with you.” Stiles took a dangerous step forward to stand next to Derek. Unwilling to let Stiles be hurt, Derek put a hand up to push him back, but Stiles caught his arm. A reassuring half smile flashed across Stiles’ lips, like they had an inside play against Peter Derek couldn’t remember. He hesitated, not believing Stiles would do anything stupid over a minor interaction. After everything that happened with Scott, Stiles had plenty of power and opportunity to do something truly devastating to Peter if he wanted, but he chose not to. Stiles was cautious. He had to know something Derek didn’t, so Derek dropped his arm and let Stiles take the lead. “Peter, go home,” Stiles demanded calmly. 

The look of sheer disgust that saturated Peter's entire face spoke volumes about how afraid he was of Stiles. Peter detested him, saw Stiles as far beneath him. “Did you do something to him?" Peter asked Stiles flippantly. "Cast some hoodoo, swamp witch spell to make him your little monkey boy?” 

“No," Stiles laughed softly. "Derek just doesn’t like you because you’re an asshole.” Stiles was entirely unaffected by Peter’s colorful insults. 

Peter moved toward Derek, hand held out like he expected to grab him by the arm and drag him away. Stiles held out his hand and the ground under Peter’s feet crumbled, water bubbled up around his shoes, sinking Peter into a puddle of mud all the way to his ankles.

“Shit," Peter cursed, rolling his eyes and dropping his arms like they were being annoying and petulant. "Jesus Stiles, these are italian leather. Was that really necessary?” Peter tried to lift his feet out of the mud, but the more he struggled the deeper he went. He stopped and fixed his eyes on Stiles, a little more worried than he was before. “How, exactly, are you doing this?" Peter demanded. He pulled up on one of his feet and it sucked back down into the ground with a satisfying snap. "You can't do this, your little magic tricks don't work on me.” Peter snarled unhappily, still not nearly concerned as Derek understood Peter should have been. 

“They didn't work on you,” Stiles said, emphasising the past tense. 

“Derek, what did you do?” Peter asked, eyes narrow with accusation. 

“He didn't really do anything. Not purposely at least.” Stiles hovered dangerously close to Peter, just within arms reach. “What did happen though puts you in a dangerous position." Stiles rubbed his chin, thoughtfully assessing Peter's awkward entrapment. "If I were you I would pay close attention to everything I'm about to say, because I’m fairly certain your life depends on it.” 

“By all means, enlighten me,” Peter hissed. His jaw flexed as he judged the distance between the three of them. Derek was certain Peter was trying to decide if he could kill Stiles before Derek ripped his throat out. 

“Remember that new moon party at Scarlet Willow’s place about a year ago? She invited me to stay when I dropped off my dad’s haul for the day?" Stiles rolled out the beginning of his explanation, proving he and Peter had more of a past than Derek assumed. Peter didn't acknowledge Stiles, but he stopped trying to figure out how to kill them and started paying attention to what Stiles was saying. "I accepted her invitation even though I never had before. I wasn’t even sure why I said yes at the time, but then you showed up." Stiles grinned and rocked back on his heels. Peter glared at him, waiting for the conclusion. "From what I recall, you also never go to her parties,” Stiles added. 

“It’s not really my idea of a good time," Peter stated unhappily. "I think we both illustrated quite clearly why we don't usually attend by the end of the evening, don't you think?” Peter said bitterly. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/88727514355)

“Do you remember the story you told?” Stiles asked. 

“I remember the getting drunk part," PEter scoffed. "And the saying a few things I’d love to scrub out of my brain part, but I don't remember any particularly remarkable stories, no.” Peter was over exaggerating his disdain for Stiles. He was nervous and worried about what Stiles was going to say next. 

"I remember those parts too," Stiles cringed like they were embarrassing for Stiles as well. "Long before that humiliating moment we'd both like to forget, you told us about the wolf of Alexandria, Kakopoious. How he tore through the city destroying everything on the full moon because he was poisoned with wolfsbane and it drove him mad.” 

“I know the goddamned story,” Peter snarled. 

“Derek probably doesn’t though,” Stiles guessed right. “Why don’t you tell him how they stopped Kakopoious,” he suggested. 

“Are you fucking serious? I’m going to have to walk home barefoot like one of you swamp rats and you want me to tell a werewolf bedtime story?” Peter lunged for Stiles, trying to use his outrage as a distraction. 

Before Derek could take a swipe at Peter with his claws Peter jerked backward, his arms stiff. Stiles grabbed Peter by the throat viciously. Water pooled in Peter's mouth and he sputtered. It began to trickle out, falling down Peter's chin, onto his shirt. His eyes went wide as he choked and coughed, mouthing his surrender through the unmistakable sound of drowning. Stiles pushed further, his lips going thin as he concentrated. Water poured out of Peter's mouth like a waterfall, tinged pink and yellow from the damage Stiles was doing to his insides. Derek considered intervening for a moment to save Stiles from making a rash decision, but he felt no desire to protect Peter and Stiles didn't seem to make rash decisions. It stopped too soon to kill him, but Peter was still gaunt, pale, and breathless. 

“You used to be mostly water, now you're about a tenth down? Your brain feels like mush and thirsty doesn't quite describe it?" Stiles asked. Peter didn't react, he only hung off Stiles' hand like he wished he could die. "Upside, I bet your mouth feels like it doesn’t work anymore, so maybe now you’ll shut the fuck up." Stiles was still holding Peter, threatening like he hadn't quite wrung all the fight out of him yet, even though it looked like he had to Derek. "Your welcome to push your luck. A little more of this and your organs will start to shrivel up. I’ve never done that before, I’m curious,” Stiles offered.

Peter's eyes went wide and he shook his head, lifting his arms weakly like he wanted to surrender. 

Stiles let him go and Peter crumpled, falling on the ground painfully. “Do you want to kill him? You could be an alpha,” Stiles offered. 

It would fix everything if Peter was gone, at least it would fix everything wrong with Derek's life at that moment. Once he was an alpha, if he didn't die from it, he would have a whole new set of problems. “Should I?” he asked Stiles, hoping he had a more clear view. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles answered, he shook his head and stared at Peter like he wished he had better advice. 

“How did this happen? What was the story about?” Derek asked, buying himself more time to think. 

“The universe intervened on your behalf,” Stiles said, pointing to the broken lines of his tattoo. "Something out there really wants to help you, and hurt him at the same time."

“You can’t,” Peter barked out hoarsely from the ground. 

“Okay, back to you then, Mr. Talkative." Stiles crouched down next to Peter to inspect the damage he'd done. "You think we can't? Well how about Scott? The powers the be didn't just hand him what he's got on a whim," Stiles pointed out. "They did not like what you were doing and gave him the power to stop you." Stiles shook his head and laughed. "I think you should take the word can't right out of your vocabulary, and I also think you might want to seriously consider your life choices because the powers that be really want you dead.” 

“How?” Peter asked, his eyes narrow and his voice like gravel. 

Stiles glanced up at Derek like he wasn't quite sure, then shrugged. “You're gonna figure it out anyways," Stiles sighed. "It's just like the story. I gave sanctuary to a betrayed brother. And my cousin found this big patch of wolfsbane just west of your territory....” 

“Grandmother's grave?” Peter scowled and struggled to sit up, his body healing itself regardless of the lack of water. 

“Let’s just say she tried to kick my ass, but Derek asked forgiveness, and she gave it. That covers the blessing from the dead part, right?” Stiles continued. "Then there was the real tricky part, the sort of thing you just can't pull off on accident unless the powers that be want it." Stiles looked back over his shoulder at Derek like he was worried for a moment. "Mingling of consecrated flesh," Stiles said apologetically. He meant the tattoo, his mother's ashes, all of it. 

“No," Peter protested even though talking looked painful. "Derek's the first swamp witch, werewolf hybrid?” Peter laughed hoarsely at his own stupid joke, causing himself pain just so he could prove how much he wanted them to believe he didn't care." 

“Derek was injured by the wolfsbane, same as me," Stiles explained. "According to tradition, we burned the bandages in a consecrated vessel. But I didn’t have any Hale ashes, so I used my mom’s.” 

“You stole them,” Peter said accusingly, trying say Stiles knew what he was doing and took the leftover ashes purposely, for his own purposes. Peter desperately wanted to jump to a conclusion that made him a real victim instead of suffering the punishment the universe decided he deserved. “Derek, he’s been using you to get to me,” Peter said hoarsely, holding out his hand like he actually expected Derek to help him. 

“Shut up Peter," Derek snapped. "It was my fault, not Stiles'. Let him finish,” he warned. 

“It was an accident, Derek didn't mean to anymore than I did. We were being careful enough, I thought," Stiles said for Derek's sake more than Peter's. He turned and gave Peter his full attention back. "Though, I won't lie. If I had known I could do it I probably would have tracked Derek down years ago and taken a run at him," Stiles admitted. "He just slipped with dirty hands and gave me this for my trouble.” Stiles pointed to the broken tattoo lines on his shoulder. 

Peter’s eyes went wide and darted across Stiles' chest like it was the first time he was seeing the tattoos. “What the hell are those?” Peter asked, his heart racing and palpitating in his chest wildly. Whatever Peter knew, or assumed about the tattoos was enough to terrify him more than anything else he had seen or heard so far. Peter leaned back, staying as far away from Stiles as he could.

“I don't kill, it’s a rule of mine because too many in line before me killed indiscriminately," Stiles kept explaining, ignoring Peter and his sudden, intense fear. "My mom changed that. She changed a lot of things actually, and she died for it. I might too, but in the meantime I'll stick to protecting, not killing, unless you give me a reason to think otherwise." Stiles hovered over Peter curiously. Peter looked like he would give anything to be able to run away. "I think I'd feel pretty good about killing you though. I’d walk away with a clean conscience. And the universe might just thank me for it, you think?” 

A hard swallow stretched Peter’s throat painfully. His jaw clenched and he opened his mouth slowly. His lips were cracked and dry, but his mouth seemed to be working fine again, unfortunately. “I admit, I may have taken things a little too far, but I never--” 

“Whatever you’re planning on doing, make sure it doesn’t happen. Then clean up all your messes you've already made,” Stiles demanded. 

Peter nodded, agreeing to the demand. Surprisingly nothing else came out of him, no flowery words or protests. Peter stared at the ground as his heart palpitated uncomfortably in his chest. He was scared, so scared he didn't seem to care about how terrible he probably felt. Stiles stood up and looked far off, back toward the village. Derek didn't hear the light, fast footsteps that fell behind the tree line until a couple seconds later. Someone was walking toward them. Someone small and light. Derek wished for Trudy or Melissa, maybe even Kira, but not Becca. Anyone but Becca. 

“If you want to kill him, you have to do it now,” Stiles offered one last time. 

“No, I don’t want that,” Derek answered, relief filling his chest as the words came out. 

Much To Derek's surprise, Stiles offered his hands to Peter and lifted him to his feet carefully. They all waited silently, Stiles with a good grip on Peter's arm, until Trudy’s smiling face came out from under the trees. She was carrying a thermos and a gallon jug of water. Smiling happily, she waved to them, then stopped and covered her eyes. Probably to see Peter better. As she got closer Derek could tell she realized who Peter was, and how bad he looked. Without question, or permission, Trudy held out the gallon jug of water and Peter took it. Peter smiled gratefully before he awkwardly twisted the cap off with one restrained arm and drank, incapable of letting an opportunity to charm someone pass by. Trudy smiled back and nodded, but the moment she turned to Stiles it was obvious she wasn't happy with Peter's presence. 

“What happened?” Trudy asked. 

“Peter got lost,” Stiles said. 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you found these guys then?” Trudy eyed Stiles warily and shook her head, making it clear she was deeply confused and wanted an explanation later. “I brought lemonade too.” Trudy handed Stiles the thermos and waved to Derek before turning around and running back to the village like the sane person she was. 

Once she was gone Stiles pointed the cap of the thermos at Peter, nodded his head and waited like he expected Peter to help him get the lid off. Peter stopped drinking and looked between the thermos and Stiles like he had to be joking. Peter narrowed his eyes, then switched the jug over to his restrained arm and unscrewed the cap, dropping it on the ground defiantly. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said. 

“Anytime,” Peter smiled. 

“I think it's about time to end this, since the pleasantries are over." Stiles grinned before he took a sip of lemonade. "Derek, what do you want?” Stiles asked him, swirling the ice cubes in the thermos noisily. 

Derek was being given the opportunity to negotiate with Peter before Stiles let him go. Derek didn't have to think about it, he knew exactly what he wanted. Derek thought about what he might say hundreds of times over the last few weeks. A few things had changed, but not the most important parts. “I want to stay here, and I want Cora and Laura to live wherever they want. If they choose to stay with Peter I want a guarantee they'll be safe. I want them to come and go as they please. No more rules about never leaving the property. We all know you aren’t protecting anyone Peter, you’re just keeping them prisoner.” Derek stated his demands, satisfied with the unhappiness that crept across Peter's face. 

“Is that all?” Peter asked. 

“No, I want you to give Laura what mom left her," Derek snapped. "You might have stolen alpha from someone else, but Laura is the alpha of the Hale family, not you. Laura gets exactly what mom granted her, word for word. Nothing more, nothing less,” Derek demanded. He trusted his mother's words, and her wariness of Peter. 

“Fine," Peter agreed. "I was fun and spectacularly rich before you brats came along. If you want Laura to be stifled by all that responsibility, who am I to stand in the way?” Peter agreed to all of it, however sarcastically. 

“If I find out you’re whispering in her ear again, trying to undermine her efforts, I’ll come for you,” Derek promised. 

“As long as you don't forget your little swamp witch boyfriend," Peter laughed. "I can't even take you seriously alone.” Peter gave Stiles an assessing look and Stiles let him go. 

Barely catching himself as his feet broke free, Peter was obviously relieved to be standing on his own again. He glared at Stiles murderously until Stiles raised his hand. Peter’s face fell and he backed away, taking what was left of the jug with him without saying another word. The sound of Peter running away in his ruined italian leather shoes was the greatest end to it that Derek could have hoped for besides a death that was somehow clean on Derek's conscience. 

“I don't know if I should have let him go,” Stiles admitted as he watched Peter vanish into the treeline, heading east, toward Hale territory. 

“I’m not going to pretend I understand what just happened, but I know Peter, he’s terrified," Derek assured Stiles. "He’s the one constantly talking about how the universe works. You just told him it wants him dead, and he believed you. Staying alive will be his number one priority for a while.” 

“We can’t be sure about your sisters though?” Stiles asked.

“I wouldn’t have left them if I didn’t think they could handle themselves. Laura can rip him to shreds if he pushes her, and he was barely hanging on to her before," Derek explained. "That’s why I thought I had a chance to change things. I someone else could help her see what Peter was doing, maybe she wouldn’t have so much faith in him. ” 

“We don’t know what he was up to,” Stiles argued.

“If he was supposed to die, why would the universe hand the job to two assholes who won’t do it?” Derek asked. They had both made the same choice. If it was a bad one, at least they were in it together. Maybe they could fix it together, if they had to. 

“That’s a really good question.” Stiles turned to Derek, his expression intense like he was considering the answer. “I have a better one though," Stiles grinned. "Have you ever been crawfishing?”


	4. Promising Water

“I have a room,” Kira spoke up. Her giant smile was a good sign she really wanted to offer her hospitality.

“Scott, you don’t mind?” Stiles asked. 

“Dude, I got no say in it.” Scott held up his hands, but he was smiling. “He needs to get settled somewhere. He’s driving Gran nuts staying in the parish house. She says every time she turns around he’s lurking in some corner, asking her if she needs help with anything.” 

“He’s just bored, he doesn’t know what to do with himself yet.” Stiles didn't know either, but all Derek really needed to worry about was learning. Purpose would come later. 

“He’ll figure it out soon. He’s going to run out of books!" Kira laughed. "And he’s wearing everyone out, not just Gran. Even Becca gets tired of teaching him stuff.” Kira sounded a little awe struck. “I think it'll be cool to live with him. He never forgets anything, he cleans and cooks, and how many languages does he know anyways?" KIra continued with wide eyes. "He spoke Spanish to the librarian yesterday and he was speaking French to Gran a few days ago. This morning he greeted me in Korean because Becca asked him if he knew how.” 

“Trudy said he corrected some of the ancient Latin translation in that medical book they’ve been using for decades,” Isaac added. “I think it’s weird, especially with that whole handprint thing. I’m not sure if we should trust him.” 

“Derek’s a good guy.” Scott came to Derek’s defense every time, but Scott would defend just about anyone with a sliver of morality. 

Sometimes decades passed between people who came to live with them who were called to the nematon, but both Kira and Isaac had shown up in the last year, now Derek. It was good, the community needed them as much as they needed the community, but no one in recent years had caused quite as much controversy as Derek Hale. Just the fact he was a Hale was enough to put some people on edge, and everything else just added to their uneasiness. Stiles was certain it would pass, eventually. In the mean time having Scott, Gran, and Trudy full on Derek's side helped keep tensions low. 

Thankfully, Derek had won back Jason’s good graces. Jason was easily the loudest voice in their community, and Stiles didn't think it was possible to sway him back after the incident with the blue eyes and Tommy. Jason was being protective, everyone understood that, especially Derek. Fortunately, the ancient Latin translation Derek corrected was something Trudy had been working on for Jason’s mother, to help her heart. Jason’s mother’s condition had improved drastically, and if it continued to work, it might extend her life well into old age. Jason was thankful, and no longer vocal about Derek not belonging here. That alone took half the heat off of Stiles for granting him Sanctuary without asking how the community felt. They trusted him, but they still expected his respect. 

“Isaac," Stiles sighed. "Lighten up. No one trusted you either, but you had good reasons to be as weird as you were when you first got here," Stiles reminded him. "People don’t show up here because their lives are sunshine and rainbows. They show up here because they need us.” Stiles hoped pointing out the obvious would shut Isaac up for good. 

“My life was pretty great,” Kira said, not trying to unravel his argument, just giving it another leg to stand on. 

“We needed you more than you needed us. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t, and neither would Derek,” Stiles shook his head, still not sure what drove Kira here. She just showed up one day in a flatbed pickup, with a katana and a smile, saying she woke up with a feeling she needed to come. Everyone loved Kira, except Isaac, but he didn't count. “I’ll let him know you offered. It’ll probably be temporary though, if he wants to fix up the place next to Isaac’s.” 

“I thought you were going to take that?” Scott asked. 

“I don't need it, not anymore.” Stiles was referring to the fact his dad was at Melissa’s place most nights anymore. The house was basically his. 

It was weird for him at first, his dad and his mother’s sister, but his mom had been gone for more than ten years. His dad deserved to be happy, and so did Melissa. Scott didn’t seem to care either way, as long as everyone was happy. Looking back, Stiles wasn’t sure what had made them wait so long. Melissa was like his second mother, and Scott had always been more like his brother than his cousin. They fit together better this way, as a family. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/88163978415)

Next was figuring out where Derek Hale fit. Stiles hadn't concerned himself much with Kira or Isaac, even though he was the one who picked Isaac up. Just remembering how ridiculously lost Isaac was made Stiles cringe. Somehow, half beaten to death and starving, Isaac thought he was hitchhiking to New Orleans. Unfortunately he was on the wrong highway, going the wrong direction when Stiles saw him and just knew Isaac was destined to be the next great pain in his ass. In the end Kira and Isaac fell under pack domain, that made them Scott's responsibility. Derek was different though. Stiles forgot Derek was a werewolf at all sometimes. They all did. 

Back at the parish house Becca and Derek were studying on the porch. Heat from the mid-day sun was like being stuck in an oven, but they were still studying. Hunched over a small book that was probably ten times older than Becca at least. Trying to tear either of them away from it before they were ready would be the worst decision Stiles had made all day, so he leaned against one of the front porch posts and waited patiently. 

"No, no, this one. You keep getting them mixed up. You have to remember, red for dread, blue for cool. It's better if it rhymes perfectly, but the association still works," Becca explained. 

"It's hard because this passage doesn't make sense. I don't have that visualization, I have exactly the same as the water element. Half of this stuff isn’t true for me." Derek scowled at the book, flipping the pages back and forth like something might jump out at him that would answer his question. 

"I don't know that part. These are just the basic four. I don’t know if there’s anything after this, like combinations. Gran probably knows though," Becca suggested. 

"It's okay, forget it. We need to learn everything about the basics first, like you said, then move on. We don't need to skip ahead on my account." Derek sat back on the bench, writing notes in a black field guide. 

“You’re catching up quick,” Stiles said. “Becca told me you were, but she didn’t mention you were already into the books.” Stiles put a hand out, asking Becca for the old red book. She picked it up carefully and handed it over, then started writing notes in her own journal. 

The stiff, old pages crackled near the end, where they hadn’t dug into it yet. Derek had already caught up with Becca, and she knew more at twelve than Stiles did at sixteen. The book he held was the bane of his existence for two whole years. That’s how long it took him to memorize Trudy’s notes on it. It was written in a bastardized version of French and English thier grandfather used to speak. The words and language were nearly unintelligible to everyone but Gran, Becca, and apparently Derek. The book was exactly as Becca had described it, the basics. All of them had to learn it’s contents, though most of them just took lessons from Gran until she was satisfied they knew what they were doing. Becca and Derek were trusted to study independently, but that didn’t surprise Stiles.

“I can’t believe you guys are reading this on your own,” Stiles said, handing the book back to Becca. 

“We make an okay team. I have a bigger vocabulary, but she understands the syntax,” Derek said offhandedly as he wrote more notes. Catching Becca's attention, Stiles nodded and motioned for her to go inside, silently asking for a minute alone with Derek. She took the book inside and ran up the stairs toward the library, probably to get some other obscure text. “Where did she go?” Derek asked, looking around like he might find her in the yard somewhere. 

“I ran her off, I had a couple questions for you,” Stiles said. 

“Oh, what’s up?” Derek closed his book and dropped it on the bench, giving Stiles his undivided attention. 

“Kira has offered up her second room if you want a more private space.” 

“Kira?” Derek was surprised, but he looked like he was considering it. 

Derek and Kira hadn’t spent much time together, but Kira had obviously been paying attention to Derek. She was nice, and she was madly in love with Scott. Stiles hoped Derek would say yes because she would be a good friend to him. Even though he had been here for a while, the only people Derek seemed to talk to were Becca, Gran, and Trudy. He was obviously avoiding any interaction with the pack, but he couldn’t immerse himself in learning forever. Derek had to become a part of the community if they were going to accept him. 

“She’s kinda cluttered, has a lot of weapons, but she plays good music.” Stiles made his best attempt at a pitch. It was really all he knew of her private life. 

“Do you think I should?” Derek asked. 

“Yes. I think you’ll like it better than being here. The parish house is like a hotel and you need a home.” 

“I didn’t know, um, If I was staying?” Derek obviously wasn’t sure if he would be allowed with the recent grumbling. 

“Do you want to stay?” Stiles asked, hoping Jason and the other more quiet complainers, like Isaac, hadn’t alienated him too much already. 

“I think so, but I think you, and a few others might be worried about it.” Derek sighed and looked around like he wanted a better answer. "I don't want to intrude. This place is too nice." 

“I want you to stay," Stiles assured him. "And I’m only worried about one thing. The rest of them will fall in line eventually. You’re good for Becca and Gran," Stiles promised. "And me. You're good for me too," he added. 

Derek smiled and nodded, happy to hear Stiles' opinion. “Wait, what are you worried about?” Derek asked. 

“That,” Stiles pointed to Derek's long sleeves, pulled all the way to his wrist even though it was over ninety degrees outside. It was still Stiles' sunday shirt, but Derek had appropriated it. He wore the shirt everyday since they ran Peter off. It was meant to cover the big, ugly handprint Stiles somehow left behind. The one no one, not even Gran, could account for. Continuing to pretend it wasn’t strange wouldn’t do either of them any good. Other people in the community had started noticing it. The questions were bound to come up. It was better if Stiles answered them first, and now was as good a time as any to discuss it. 

Derek rubbed his eyes and looked at the ground, defeated. He actually thought he’d been hiding it. “Do you think it means something? Like your tattoos?” he asked, finding a little hope. 

“Maybe, what makes you think so?” Stiles asked. 

“They’re the same color sometimes. Only when it’s cold.” 

Only when it’s cold. Those were the exact words Stiles used twelve years ago when he was trying to understand how the marks on his skin worked. When his grandmother was trying to teach him how to control them. It wasn’t right, Stiles had to see for himself. Stiles sat down next to Derek and pulled up his sleeve. The silvery, white scar didn’t look anything like his tattoos. Stiles hesitated, unsure if he really wanted answers, but he needed them. He rubbed his fingers against his palm roughly on one hand before setting his palm down on Derek’s arm. Stiles concentrated on the cold, icy elemental energy that was always waiting, just under the surface of his skin. Derek tensed under his hand, goosebumps blazing across his skin. Parts of the scar peeked out under Stiles' hand and turned pink, then darkened to a bright red. The same color as his tattoos. 

Lifting his hand, Stiles stared back at the hand print etched permanently into Derek’s skin. He ran his fingers over it. The energy resonated under his fingers like they were set to the same frequency. 

“C’mon, follow me," Stiles asked as he stood up. "And leave my shirt here.” Things were about to get weird and messy. He hoped to get his shirt back someday. Maybe still white enough to wear in family pictures. Derek followed him down to the pond, stopping at the edge instead of walking straight into the water like Stiles did. “Get in,” Stiles asked, though it didn't sound like a question. 

Fidgeting with his fingers, Derek paced the muddy edge of the pond for a moment then stepped in tentatively. The magnetic pull of someone else who could manipulate elemental energy wasn’t something a person could feel just hanging around. But calf deep in the element they were born to? That was different. Derek walked in, slogging through the water and mud noisily until he was right next to Stiles. Sensations like faint pinpricks or tiny electric shocks bombarded his submerged skin as soon as Derek was within arms reach. There was no mistaking that kind of proof. Somehow, against all reason, Derek was the same as him.

There would be a hundred questions. Some of which Derek had already started asking just a few minutes ago on the porch with Becca. Derek might be strong, like Stiles was, or he might be weak. Only be able to feel when a storm was coming, or a drought about to break. Either way, Derek was impossible, he shouldn't be able to exist. Two pure elemental spirits couldn't live inside one person. The fight for control was supposed to tear them to shreds, but Derek looked fine, like he had always been that way. Maybe he had. Derek would want to know why, and impossible wasn't something Stiles knew how to explain. He knew how to show Derek it was true, if he didn't already feel it. But explaining why, or how might never happen in their lifetime. Panic and fear welled up in Stiles' chest when he though about how he was going to explain to Gran, and what other people might do when they found out. All Stiles wanted to do was protect Derek, but he had to protect the rest of his family too. Familiar sensation of dread flooded him until an icy, cold serenity spread over his chest. It distracted him, taking the edge off the chaos building in his head. The elemental energy the lived inside Stiles might help keep him calm, but it hadn't given him any real answers. 

"That's real?" Derek asked. "That's me, and you. I can see it in the water." Derek looked up at Stiles, his eyes bright, glowing blue. Whatever Derek was seeing was proof enough to convince him. "I'm like you?" Derek asked, already confused. 

“I can't answer your questions. I don't have answers.” Stiles didn’t want Derek to lose it, or get angry when there weren’t any. That’s how the pond happened. 

Hands covered Stiles' shoulders and pulled him to the edge of the pond. He and Derek sat down together, their feet still submerged in the water. “I’m okay, are you?” Derek asked. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just not--I don’t know how this happened. I don't know why.” Stiles wanted to apologize more somehow, but it all felt far too big and out of their hands to be something he could apologize for. 

“You already said that," Derek said quietly. His hand moved over Stiles shoulder like he was worried. Derek was worried about Stiles. "Don't worry about answers. I’m perfectly capable of getting them for myself if I have to,” Derek assured him

It was true, Derek was well on his way to figuring it out before Stiles came along and flipped out. He would have figured it out on his own eventually, probably soon. The more information Derek collected, the closer he got to putting it together, the more questions he asked, but he was patient and reasonable. Derek told Becca to wait, that they would get to it eventually. Derek was nothing like Stiles. He was subdued, methodical, and linear. Stiles was chaotic, impulsive, and intuitive. Derek could be trusted. He would be fine, if he knew everything. 

“I’m going to tell you what I think you need to know, after that, I’ll give you whatever information I can,” Stiles promised, trusting that Derek might be able to make more of what Stiles knew than he could himself. Derek nodded, ready to listen. “When I was a kid, only women inherited this power. It had been so long no one remembered the men. It even skipped generations and parts of the family tree to avoid male heirs, so no one thought it would be me. No one told me what might happen." Stiles still felt sick remembering his mothers death and the shock that came afterward. He never got to properly mourn her, he felt it even then. "I woke up three days after my mom passed away with these.” He held out his arms, showing his tattoos. “I was cold, and scared, so I came out here to Talequa," Stiles continued. "I felt like I was going to die, so I laid down in the grass and waited. I thought, at least I’d be with my mom," Stiles shrugged. "Then I was underwater, floating in the freezing cold. I should have been drowning, but it felt good, like I was safe. I still thought I might be dying, but I didn’t care because it was the first time I felt like I was real since I watched her die.” Stiles wanted to leave parts out, not mention how he felt in the water, but Derek needed to know for all of it to make sense. 

"Was it this pond? How did it happen?" Derek asked. 

“The pond just formed around me. Scott saw it happen. If he didn't I might have been down there for a long time. I don't know how it would have turned out if he hadn't saved me." Stiles took a deep breath and smiled just remembering Scott and how brave he was, even back when they were so little. "He dragged my ass out thinking I was dead. That the earth got angry and swallowed me for some reason, but he wasn’t having any of it. He took me up to the parish house and they fixed me up, but the pond never drained. It’s never gotten bigger, or smaller. No matter how hot it is, or how much it rains. It stays exactly how I made it.” 

“You’re sure you made it?” Derek asked. 

“Yeah, now I am. I know how it feels when I use my power. I get cold, my heart slows down, and I feel kind of like I’m dying,” Stiles answered. 

“I used to feel like that, before I could control the change on the full moon, but it was like burning in my head and chest. It hurt when I tried to control it,” Derek said. 

“You’ve seen me dig into the ground? Anchor myself down, and channel power?” Stiles asked. 

“Yeah, Becca explained that. It’s the layer of decomposition and the energy it feeds the living. You can utilize the space where it transfers from one to the next, and channel it, but it works best if you have water as a conduit,” Derek explained. 

“That’s a little more science than magic, isn’t it?” Stiles smiled. 

“Yeah,” Derek laughed. 

“So, whatever happens, whatever people say, just know it’s not impossible. It's just something we haven't explained yet.” Stiles hoped that was enough for Derek, he hoped it would be enough for everyone after what he was going to ask Derek to try. “I want you to do something for me. I want you to try and channel through the water.” 

“I can’t do that, the werewolf--” Derek stopped and shook his head. “That is impossible.” 

“We covered that, right?” Stiles asked. “We’ll dig it apart later. Empirical evidence versus theory. Write everything down and poke at it with sticks till we never want to talk about it again," Stiles offered. "But right now, just see if it’s true. Okay?” 

Derek nodded as he rubbed the wet hair on his shins. Without any instruction from Stiles, Derek dropped his hand into the water and worked his toes into the mud. “You want me to go after the fish?” he asked. 

“That’s probably a little bit--“ Stiles stopped as the familiar glowing, blue frenzy came to the surface. The tiny mosquito fish Stiles thought of as pets danced around, stirred up by the infusion of energy. “Well,"Stiles sighed. "Apparently that’s not out of your league.” 

The cloud of blue fish faded back to a murky silver, brown, darting around their feet in the shallow water when Derek pulled his hand away. He flexed his fingers and turned his arm. Color bloomed over the handprint and the bright red, ink-like color settled. Finally looking more like a tattoo than something painted on Derek's skin. 

“It’s just like the wolf." Derek marveled quietly. "I want it, and it happens. It’s willpower, just the same,” Derek smiled, surprised at how easy it was. 

“Yeah," Stiles agreed. "I guess that would do it. I can imagine channeling benevolent energy from the earth is a little less challenging than holding a pissed off shapeshifter spirit at bay.” 

“I think I'm probably more pissed off than it is, but--you say that like I’m possessed?” 

“Well, we both are," Stiles said tentatively. "That's something you should have learned right away?" 

"I think we might have glossed over some real basic things because I thought I already knew, from my family," Derek explained. "I should go back and read it all again."

"Can't hurt," Stiles agreed. "Spiritual possession is how all creatures are made. Kitsune, Banshee, Werewolves, Incubus, all possessed by different kinds of pure spirit. Not all possession is bad, but that’s why you’re impossible. The two spirits shouldn't be able to coexist in the same person. They fight for control and the body ends up paying the price.” 

“I feel alright,” Derek assured him. “Actually, I feel a lot better than I have in years. Kind of like you said? I’ve cooled off and I finally feel like myself again.” 

“I think you are okay," Stiles agreed. "Before, the very first time I sensed you out in the woods and ran? I didn't get the feeling of a wolf like I know them. All red fire and chaos. You were blue, and cold, like me. I thought later it was your eyes, but that was just wishful thinking."

"I was born like this. A werewolf, just like my family," Derek said. "I was never any different from any of them?" 

"Maybe not on the outside. The wolf spirit is there, but I think it was made different somehow. Something made this possible and this is where it started,” Stiles pointed to the red hand print on Derek's arm. “I think maybe you were born like me a little and being able to channel the power came from me somehow, when you did this.” He tapped at the skin of his shoulder, the broken lines of his tattoo that almost matched Derek’s new one. 

“Swamp witch, werewolf hybrid,” Derek said, repeating Peter’s cruel words. 

“Yeah, he's an asshole, but now you can kick his ass ten ways to sunday, without being an alpha," Stiles grinned. 

“Yeah, that doesn’t suck,” Derek smiled. “You were right though, there's going to be a lot of questions. I mean, we have a lot of questions. I can't imagine what everyone else will think?” 

“You don't have to tell anyone, not yet,” Stiles offered. 

“You’d let me keep that secret?” Derek asked. 

“It’s not a secret," Stiles assured him. "Right now, it's just your business, and yes, your welcome to keep it to yourself. You’re telling me, and I’m the one who decides who needs to know what." 

"What about when people find out later?"

"They trust us to take care of things. I’ll talk to Gran, and make sure she thinks it's best as well. That will be enough for everyone else."

"Thank you, for everything." Derek hunched over and swirled up the fish again, just a little. "I don't know--I can't imagine what my life would be like right now if you weren't around." 

"Well," Stiles hesitated, unsure if he should keep his feelings to himself, or if Derek wanted to know. "You better get used to my ugly-ass face, because it's gonna be just you and me, all day everyday until I’m sure you won't cause then next great hurricane,” he laughed. 

“That doesn't sound like a bad time to me.” Derek glanced over at him, smiling. 

“We should go have some fun," Stiles suggested. "Get out of here for a little while? I can show you some stuff that's way cooler than the stirring up mosquito fish?" 

"Yeah, sure," Derek nodded. He sat up and wiped his hands off on his shorts like he was ready to go. 

"You wanna go down to Blue Bayou with Scott and Kira?” Stiles offered. "I bet they're up for it." 

"Sure," Derek nodded. “Scott is pretty cool about stuff like this, isn’t he?” 

“Scott's pretty cool about everything," Stiles laughed.

"He does seem a little unshakable," Derek admitted like he found it intimidating. 

"Scott's an enigma, like you. If anyone knows what it’s like to suddenly be something that doesn’t come with an instruction manual, it’s him. And he doesn't even know how to be an asshole, not really. He’s excited if you are, he’ll pat you on the back and share a beer if it pisses you off. Either way, he’s the coolest.”

“Kira likes everyone too,” Derek grinned, looking a lot like Kira because her smile was contagious even if you just thought about it. 

“Yeah, she does.” Stiles agreed. "Before we run off..." Stiles hesitated, already tired of his uncertainty. The more he imagined spending time with Kira and Scott, the more clear it was why he suggested just the two of them to begin with. It was so complicated, too complicated maybe, but they were connected. Stiles knew it, he felt it. Derek had to feel it to, but just asking could change everything, for Derek mostly, and not for the better. "You seem to be taking this all pretty well?" Stiles asked finally. Derek smiled at him, his mouth slightly open like he wasn't sure what to say and Stiles wanted to blurt everything out. Just tell Derek that even though they were obligated to spend time together, Stiles didn't mind at all. Derek was interesting, gorgeous, and fun to be around. Most importantly, in the face of all the upheaval in his life Derek was still hopeful. He kept moving forward. 

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/92730611010)

Derek ran his fingers through the muddy water, stirring up the fish a little again. “Life has been pretty good since--lately, I guess?” 

“Since we ran Peter off?” 

“No, not--nothing like that.” Derek shook his head and turned to give Stiles his attention. “It sounds strange, but I feel like my life started over? Like I died and got some sort of second chance?" Derek shrugged, trying to diminish his feelings as absurd. "I don’t know. It's probably just too much magic, and not enough science,” he laughed. 

“You did die,” Stiles admitted. Derek looked up at him sharply, wide eyed and surprised. “Out there in the wolfsbane at your grandmother's grave? Not for too long I don't think. I probably should have told you, but you were fine. You were safe with me.” 

Derek stared at the water, speechless for a moment. “Did you resuscitate me?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I thought I dreamed that,” he said to himself, more than Stiles. 

“I only did what I had to,” Stiles assured him, hoping Derek wasn’t as upset with him as he looked. 

“It was--I thought I was going crazy, making things up in my head,” Derek explained. 

“I wouldn't be surprised if you did dream some strange things, or hallucinate. We turned out okay, though it was touch and go there for a minute I did what I had to but it probably wasn't very pleasant, me breathing all that wolfsbane into you,” Stiles pointed out. Derek was scowling at the water, his eyes fixed in one place like he was thinking. Nervous and probably more worried than he should have been, Stiles started rambling. "That kind of wolfsbane is really painful to werewolves. It burns a lot before it makes you numb, and it's best at breaking down the spirit that protects you. Getting even a little in your system can leave you open to evil spirits, shades, ghosts--any spirit actually. I think--" Stiles stopped, recalling exactly what happened that day. 

Stiles had spoken St. Michael's prayer, exactly like he should have, but not until after he resuscitated Derek. There was a chance that something could have happened. Something unbelievable, but entirely possible. The elemental spirit that possessed Stiles could have been passed then, when he breathed life back into Derek. Stiles didn't really know how to resuscitate someone, but he definitely could have willed Derek back to life without realizing what he was doing. Stiles didn't have much control at the time, he just wanted Derek to live, and his physical body was worn out, drained by the dead man’s curse. But the water spirit couldn’t be touched by something like a curse. Stiles remembered taking in just a little too much energy, and something like that should have lasted him days, but he took more from the ground near the wormwood because he was running on empty. 

Elemental spirits weren’t like werewolves though. They didn't pass indiscriminately and hope for a good home. They were spiritually and intellectually aware enough to choose a worthy host they knew would survive. Elemental spirits didn’t end up in the wrong person. It was unheard of, if not impossible. If the spirit went to him, It chose Derek. Maybe even orchestrated the entire encounter between the two of them. Derek survived and adapted to it because he could. He was born to. It made Stiles hopeful, but sick for a moment thinking about all Derek had to lose to get him out in the middle of the bayou, just to meet Stiles because the powers that be decided so. 

Having an answer didn't change much, just like Stiles suspected. Instead it opened up a whole mess of questions that had answers too big for anyone to guess at. There had to be something big to all of it, something worth doing all this for. Stiles couldn't imagine the universe would set in motion such a powerful and intricate circumstance without something bigger than Peter Hale to deal with. There were old legends, stories Gran told about powerful people in their family from a long time ago. She called them Cardinal elements. They worked in pairs. One for the heart, one for the mind. With all five elements they had the power to put right grave injustice and set the world back on the right path again, but Stiles always thought those legends were exaggerated and wild, like their version of comic book heroes. 

If they were becoming something though, something like a cardinal element, then Trudy and Becca were probably the first. They were learning they were far more powerful together than they were alone. If he and Derek were the next, at least four more people were coming. Unless Tommy was one too. But Tommy had to be, he was so young, but he could already throw a scream across the whole village if he wanted to. If they had to wait for Tommy to be ready, they had a few years. Years were good. Years, probably more than ten at least. Stiles could handle years worth of time to give Derek the pieces and figure it all out for everyone. They needed a little time before whatever it was descended upon them and turned the world to chaos. They had been living comfortable for a very long time. No one really knew what it was like to fight and struggle, not like their ancestors did. Years would be enough time to work things out with Derek, to decide if he was grateful to not be alone anymore, or if he was being influenced by the energy that lived inside him. If that even mattered.

It was impossible to tell anymore where Stiles started and the spirit began, but maybe that was how it should have always been. Nothing in his life worked when he rejected when he tried to keep the spirit separate. Feeling whole and himself only happened when he was immersed in it. Maybe it passed to Stiles because he was born with the open space in his heart. Maybe Derek had been born the same. Stiles didn't like to think about things like destiny and fate, or if the things he wanted were chosen for him before he had any say. But those weren't the kind of things he had control over. He did have control over whether or not he treated Derek well, loved his family and tried his best to do right by everyone. Those things even God couldn't choose for a person. Those things you had to want and work for. 

They had both been silent too long, but Derek looked just as deep in thought as Stiles had been. Just looking over at Derek was enough to pull him out of his silent contemplation though. Stiles smiled, but Derek seemed hesitant. 

“It wasn’t bad,” Derek said. Stiles couldn't recall what he had said before, but Derek's fingers wrapping around Stiles’ ankle, hidden just under the muddy water. His icy fingers felt good, alive and reassuring. “Unpleasant I mean, when you saved me.” Derek meant his memory of being resuscitated, which Stiles was certain was very different from the reality of what happened if Derek didn't think it was awful. 

“It was pretty unpleasant from my perspective. I was terrified for starters," Stiles laughed. "I think I might like to try it again someday though, when you aren’t almost dead.” Stiles should have felt nervous, or worried like before, saying it out loud. Instead his suggestion felt silly and trite, but they had to start somewhere. 

Derek’s hand moved up his calf, leaving a trail of cold behind that was impervious to the hot, midday air. “We should go hang out with Scott and Kira," Derek smiled. "You can show me more cool things we can do.” 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Stiles said.

[This image on Tumblr](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/post/92730122205)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Blue Bayou! This is a prompt driven series. If you would like to know what happened with Kira and Scott, or Laura, any of the Hales, just ask in the comments. 
> 
> If you would like to contribute to the Blue Bayou AU, feel free! If you would like your story to be accepted into the Blue Bayou canon, please run it by me first. 
> 
> Thank you! 
> 
>  
> 
> [ xKxDx on tumblr ](http://xkxdx.tumblr.com/tagged/Art+Directory)


End file.
